#looking at the scrapes I got today without realizing whoops

[orange-orchard-system]

Thinking about how people think retail work is "easy", the idea that "unskilled labor is a myth", and some discussion/discourse I've seen about workers preferring to do sex work over retail. And I think many people just don't realize that retail work has a physical danger to it – and no, not just from other people.

Exactly what people do in their jobs will vary depending on the business, but as for me? I work with sharp metal and plastic at high speeds. Heavy objects could be dropped directly onto my head if I'm not extremely careful, and even then, all it takes is a slip of the hand. Due to our refrigerators and freezers, I am jumping between temperatures several hundred times a day, which leaves my body suffering from the whiplash. I am thankful to have a manager that enforces breaks, but my job takes a toll on me even on the mildest of work days. I could get seriously hurt, and a lot is already being asked of me.

"Retail/fast food/etc. is unskilled labor –" okay but I am not selling expert labor to you, I am selling my well-being. I am being paid to do not just the things you don't or can't do, but to damage and risk my body and overall health in these specific ways so that your day might be a little better.

And honestly, I'd be fine with that, if I got some recognition for it (in both pay and general attitude). I am fine with a little risk and damage so long as it's for proper compensation – I don't view this work as demeaning by nature, and I take pride in my skill at doing it. It's just that I wished others around me cared more about this side of my job.

On a similar note, restaurant/fast food/etc. workers are not just being paid to make and bring out your food. They are being paid to risk oil burns, regular burns, scaldings, being stabbed or sliced, their hands being mangled by equipment, their fingers being crushed by machinery, any number of diseases that food can carry before it's prepared, and death if something goes wrong with the gas. All for your convenience.

It doesn't matter if it's unskilled, or if "anyone can do it". A good salary is one that takes into account what one is sacrificing and risking to complete this job. It takes into account the damage to one's body and the everyday dangers they are in. Salary is, as people know, payment for energy and time, but it is also a reimbursement for the expense of putting oneself in harm's way, and a person's salary should reflect that.

This isn't meant to shame customers. I think it'd be a little silly to shame people for taking on my services when I am well aware of the risks in them (although I acknowledge that gets complicated when people have to take these kinds of jobs regardless of the risks, due to desperately needing money). It's more of a perspective I don't see others talk about often. Even before factoring in shitty bosses, crappy work environments, and the like, these sorts of jobs have dangers and cause damages that should be acknowledged. And people should be properly compensated for taking them on.

[nights-legacy]

Not That Easy!-Kirishima

                  First time trying to hold their hand. Does it go right or wrong?

       MHA Masterlist

        + Kirishima is a very energetic and lovable guy. So when it comes to his s/o he is no different. Although, he has kept himself reined in due to their relationship being so new and he didn’t know how she would felt about intimate actions. You on the other hand have been thinking about it just as much. You knew Kiri would most likely be alright with it but it still was nerve racking.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           Yells and whoops of cheers were heard around the area as Todoroki, Iida, and Tsuyu came back from a successful train exercise. I laughed and hug Tsuyu as they came back. She laughed with me and hugged me back tight. I then high fived Todoroki and Iida.

           “Okay, good run you three.” Aizawa sensei said not looking up from his info pad. “Okay Kirishima, Mina, and Midoriya up next.”

           “Good luck guys.” I said. I got a quick side hug from Midoriya and a peck on the cheek from Mina. Kiri walked up next and smiled at me. “Good luck Kiri.”

           “Thanks, baby.” He said before passing me slowly.

           “You two need to just kiss and get it over with. Your pining is even worse now that your two are dating.” Bakugo groaned. I blushed and turned away from him. He laughed out loud.

           “It’s not that easy. At least not for me.” I chastised. I turned back to look at him. He raised an eyebrow at me. I sighed. I hopped up on a concrete block and sat criss-cross apple sauce. Bakugo leant against the block with his arms crossed.

           “How is it not that easy?” He asked.

           “I-I don’t know! It just isn’t. I mean we haven’t even held hands yet!” I exclaimed, hiding my head in my hands. He hummed. I peeked out between my fingers. He was looking out over the area in front of us.

           “Well then, baby steps. You got to hold hands first. Are you ready for that?” He looked at me.

           “Yes.” I said after a few moments. “I really want too! I just…I don’t know. And I know Kiri would be all for it. There has been countless times where he has reached for my hand and then pulled back before he could grab it.”

           “Huh.” I pouted as he made a noise of confusion.

           “What?” I asked. He looked at me before looking at the training area. I followed his eyes to see Kiri having the time of his life it seems like.          

           “Shitty hair talks about you all the time. All this gushy stuff that in all honesty annoys the shit out of me, lets me know that he wants to do all that...intimate crap with you. So it surprises me that he has held back so much.” He admitted. “I know he’s respectful but he seems so excited.”

           “Really?” He nodded. Cheers drew our attention and I saw the group coming back. I watched Kiri as he was doing a happy dance and interacting with Kaminari. As if he felt me watching him, his head turned and his gaze met mine. He smiled a toothy smile before winking at me with a wave.

           “Goo-goo eyes.” Bakugo said. I turned toward him quick. He gave me a sideways glance. “He’s making his goo-goo eyes at you.”

           “L/N, Bakugo, and Jiro. You’re up next.” We hopped up and started that way. I walked up and went to pass by Kiri.

           “Good luck, baby.” He encouraged as I walked up.

“Thanks.” I smiled while I reached up and brushed my hand across his shoulder affectionately as I walked passed. Kiri’s eyes darted to my hand as I did touch him. I didn’t see his next reaction because I looked away blushing.

“Tsk.” I looked over at Bakugo who had a smirk on his face. He raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing there, L/N?”

“Shut up.” I muttered.

“What am I missing?” Jiro asked. She looked at us. Bakugo laughed.

“He’s teasing me about Kiri.” I told her. She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Training went good for us but not as smooth as the rest of the teams. While we were fighting the assailant of the exercises, a piece of the building gave way under Bakugo and mines feet. We feel quite a few stories before landing rough and hard. We didn’t have any bad injuries but we were sore.

“Alright. That’s the end of today’s training. Also the end of the day, class has been granted an early out today.” There were cheers at that statement. We all started walking towards the locker rooms. “Are you alright, L/N.” I stopped and looked at Aizawa.

“Yes. I am just a little sore.” I said rubbing my arm where it was bruising.

“If it gets worse I want you to report to Recovery Girl. That goes for you too Bakugo!” Aizawa-sensei said louder across the yard. Bakugo threw up his arm in recognition without turning around.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” I chuckled before walking on. It took a little bit to get changed since most of my soreness and bruising was in my shoulders and knees. It hurt to bend at the joints. I got done and left saying bye to the other girls. I walked out and saw a couple of figures ahead of me. Bakugo and Kiri.

“Hey guys.” I called out and they turned towards me, stopping. They let me catch up. We continued on and they talked about stuff that I didn’t try to keep up with. I caught Bakugo’s eye and he motioned his head towards Kiri. My eyes widen and I shook my head. He gave me a bitch face before motioning again with a stern look.

“You know what, I left one of my notebooks and worksheets in the classroom. I’ll catch up with you two at the dorms.” Bakugo said, taking off towards the school building. I watched as he went.

“That’s strange, Bakubro forgetting something. Okay.” Kiri said. We continued on. We walked in silence for a few seconds before he spoke up. “Crap. Are you alright?” He jumped in front of me, walking backwards.

“Yes Kiri I’m alright. Bakugo was able to break our fall well enough.” I said. He signed if relief before his eyes darted to my cheek where there was a cut.

“But you’re all scraped and bumped up.” He pouted. “Maybe we should go to Recovery Girl. Just to make sure.”

“I am fine Kiri. I think I could tell if I wasn’t.”

“I know but maybe there is something that you are not realizing. Like the adrenaline is blocking something. Maybe…”

“Kirishima!” I yelled, reaching out and grabbing his hand to pull him to a stop. We both froze as we realized what I did. We both looked down at the action. I glanced at Kiri who was still staring at our hands. A gentle smile started to grow on his face. His grip on my hand started to tighten.

“Alright. I am sorry. I just don’t like seeing you hurt.” He said looking back up at me with puppy eyes. I smiled and gripped his hand back. I reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair off his forehead.

“That’s sweet of you but I promise I will let you know if I get the slightest bit of pain I can’t bear.” I told him. He nodded and brought our joined hands to his lips. He kissed my hand and let his lips linger.

“Thank you.” He whispered. He moved to my side and we started walking again. I looked down, mentally cheering in my head. “At least let look you over when we get back to the dorms. I know I at least want to get the cut that’s on your cheek cleaned up.”

“Yes. I think I can let you do that.” I giggle.

“And maybe you can help me convince Bakugo to be check over. He seems to listen to you best out of everyone in class. It’s a lot less likely that I’ll get my head chewed off if you help me.” I laughed and so did he.

“I will try my best but no promises.” I said while waving at a few other students that we passed on the way. I smile absentmindedly and looked off into the distance.

“What?” Kiri spoke up.

“Huh?” I looked up at him confused.

“You had this blushy, cute little face on. What were you thinking about?” He asked with a smile and one eyebrow raised.

“Oh nothing. Just that I’m really happy.” I said while setting my head on his shoulder while gripping onto his arm with my other hand. He continued smiling and set his head on top of mine.

“I am too. I’ve wanted to hold your hand for sooo long but I didn’t how you would feel about it. I didn’t want to force anything on you that you were not ready for. I just wanted it to be perfect.” He admitted, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment. “Guess my little freak out and you having to snap me out of it wasn’t the most perfect scenario, right?”

“It may not have been the perfect scenario for our first time holding hands but I wouldn’t have it any other way because it was us. It was our of it happening and that is perfect to me.” I said looking him in the eyes. I saw admiration, joy, and excitement flash through his eyes all at once.

“Well then, if it was perfect for you, it was perfect for me. As long as you’re happy.” He flashed his pearly shark teeth.

“As long as WE”RE happy.” I corrected. He chuckled and nodded before bringing my hand up and kissing it swiftly.

“As long as we’re happy.“

[wondernimbus]

conflicted — fred weasley

pairing: fred weasley x female!reader

prompt: fred’s joke shop dreams are a little worrying.

please refrain from plagiarizing my work. requests are always open!

Is she cross with Fred?

Yes. But it's not her fault.

Or at least that's what she tells herself, because her pride is much too high for her to admit otherwise.

"I just don't—I don't get him," says [Y/N] with a deep, frustrated sigh, scowling at the surface of the black lake. "I understand that that's what he's passionate about and he genuinely enjoys making prank products—and don't get me wrong as long as he's happy, I am too—but he's.. he's not even trying, George, and that's what's bothering me."

Beside her, George Weasley grunts. "Are you sure I'm the best person to be telling this to?" he asks uncertainly. Thankfully, today, he's not being as much of the joker he usually is; probably because he can tell [Y/N] is being deadly serious. "Freddie and I are literally on the same boat. I should be offended."

[Y/N] spares him a mere sideways glance before she lets out another heavy exhale and fixes her gaze back onto the lake. "You're the only other person I can think of who can get through to him," she tells George glumly. "Maybe you'll succeed where I've failed."

George wrinkles his nose.

The pair of them are sitting by the Great Lake on Hogwarts grounds, both staring intently into the murky surface as if waiting for the giant squid to come out and swallow them whole. Other students mill around, talking and laughing amongst themselves. A group of third-year Hufflepuffs is playing a very intense game of frisbee. Some students just lay on the grass, basking in the warm glow of the sun.

George and [Y/N], meanwhile, are hardly out here for sunbathing. In fact, the somber looks on their faces are a sharp contrast to the perfect picture of a bright summer's day happening all around them. [Y/N] had asked George to come talk to her today after she'd fought with her boyfriend—who happened to be his twin brother—Fred Weasley.

While [Y/N] and Fred rarely fought, whenever they did, it was usually about the same thing: Fred's future. Like a normal girlfriend, [Y/N] wants what's best for him, and she's not entirely certain Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is the right path for him to go down on.

"It's just—it's risking a lot, George," she mutters, absentmindedly plucking at an innocent blade of grass on the ground. "You guys are good at what you do and everything, but it's.. you're taking a shot in the dark, is what I'm saying."

George hums. "I really should be offended," he sniffs, adjusting his arms from where they're set atop his crossed knees. "But I suppose I get where you're coming from. You're worried."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Who?"

[Y/N] looks up at him, then shakes her head. "Nevermind. Forgot you weren't Muggle-born. Go on."

George shakes his head in feigned disapproval. "Muggles."

"George."

"As I was saying," he continues, "The idea of a joke shop doesn't sound quite as promising as a job at old Saint Mungo's or the Ministry, but who cares? It's what Fred wants. It's what we want—hey, wait, why aren't you as worried for me as you are for Fred?"

George swivels around to face her, a look of proper hurt on his face. [Y/N] can't tell if it's fake or not, but it's certainly exaggerated—he's pulling abnormally large puppy eyes.

"Because you're not my boyfriend," says [Y/N], deadpan.

"I know, but I'm your friend—and future brother-in-law—"

Cringing, she groans, "Will you stop pulling that face, please, George? It's creeping me out."

George's face droops back to normal. "Whoops. My apologies, future sister-in-law who only cares about my brother's future but not mine."

[Y/N] rolls her eyes. "Let's be honest, George—if I stopped beating around the bush and asked you to drop all your joke shop plans, would you?"

The redhead doesn't even miss a beat. "No."

"But would you think about it?"

He pauses and makes to shake his head, but then after much thought, he nods. "I suppose. Would probably decide to go through with it in the end, though. It's a joke shop or nothing."

She sighs, once more frowning at the lake. "Fred wouldn't. Think about it, I mean. He'd say no right away. Makes you the more sensible one, as much as I hate to admit it, which means you just might be able to make a point to him."

A crease forms in between George's eyebrows. "You do realize that if I do end up changing his mind, that won't put me in a good place, right? I want to go through with the joke shop just as much as he does."

"I'm not asking you to change his mind," [Y/N] reassures him, pursing her lips. "I just want you to help him understand why I'm upset with him—he can't seem to figure it out by himself."

George snorts. "Bit of an understatement, innit? You'd think since we were twins it'd be the same, but Freddie's got a thicker skull than I do."

[Y/N] lets out a heavy breath through her nose, shoulders slumping dejectedly. "Trust me, George, I know."

—

"Are you cross with [Y/N]?"

"Yes, but it's not my fault."

Fred Weasley folds his arms over the table, scowling down at his plate like the sausages on it have committed a grave sin against him.

"What did you guys fight about?" asks Ginny, eyebrows arched as she shovels beans onto her plate. "Were you jealous of Harry again?"

"No—can you stop bringing that up, Gin? It happened once."

Ginny giggles. "If it's not that, then what is it?"

Someone slides into the seat next to Fred. It's George. "'Ello, Freddy. Why do you look like you've swallowed something sour?"

"Oh, piss off."

George clutches his chest like he's been fatally wounded. "Ouch."

"He and [Y/N] are fighting again," explains Ginny, an impish smirk blooming on her lips. Leaning over the table, she whispers to George, "I think he's jealous of someone again—d'you think it's Harry?"

Fred shoots his younger sister a glare. "I already said it wasn't—"

"Ah, good guess, Gin," George whispers back, playing along. "But not quite. See, I actually know why they're fighting—give me a galleon and I'll tell you."

Ginny withdraws back over the table and into her seat, rolling her eyes. "That won't be necessary. If it's not about Harry, it's probably the joke shop. Right?"

"It's never about Harry," Fred groans, dragging his palm over his face in frustration.

"There goes my galleon," George says sullenly, shoulders slumping. "But yes. Like a caring girlfriend, [Y/N] wants Fred to consider going down a career other than Weasley's Wizard Wheezes."

Through a mouthful of beans, Ginny says, "She has got a point."

"The same point as mum," Fred grumbles. "She knows it's what makes me happy but she's telling me to—"

"She's telling you to try, Freddy," George cuts him off, turning around in his seat to face his twin. "She's not asking you to change your mind—she wants you to at least try scraping an acceptable on your N.E.W.T.s."

Fred huffs, grabs a fork, angrily stabs it into an innocent sausage, and shovels it into his mouth all in one go. "You've got a lot of nerve telling me that, Georgey," he says, words just barely audible through his chewing. "Last time I checked, you're not studying for the tests either."

George grins. "Point taken, but I don't have a girlfriend to pester me about it, so I'm free to do whatever I want."

"You've got mum," Ginny chimes in. "She wants you to study, too."

"That's different."

"How so?"

George shrugs and twists back around in his seat to face the table properly. "Regardless of what happens, mum's always gonna be there, isn't she?" He gives Fred a sidelong glance. "A girlfriend, on the other hand—you never know when they might slip away. You've gotta hang onto them."

—

It's eleven at night when [Y/N] comes knocking on Fred's door.

Ten minutes before that, she'd been lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling as her thoughts swirled with Fred and joke shops and N.E.W.T. scores.

Fred is passionate about pranking. It's what he's known and loved his entire life, and instead of leaving it behind with his adolescence, he wants to take it further into adulthood in the form of a joke shop. And to be honest, [Y/N] is certain no one can change his mind. Not her, not Molly—no one. Girlfriend or not, she can't tell him what career to go down on; if it makes him happy, then so be it. Right?

But what she wants him to do is to at least try. He's setting aside all of his other responsibilities and betting everything on a joke shop that might not even turn out to do well. The future is uncertain, and while Weasley's Wizard Wheezes might turn out to be incredibly successful, it could just as easily be a major flop.

And if, in that case, it doesn't go as planned, [Y/N] doesn't want him to look back years from now and regret not trying. He'd blame himself and go mad over all the what-ifs.

[Y/N] doesn't want that. She loves him too much to see him anything but happy.

—

The clock strikes eleven and a knock sounds on his door.

Fred looks up from where he'd been sitting by the windowsill. He's the only one left awake in their dorm room. Having known he wouldn't be able to doze off even if he tried, Fred has been sitting here by the window looking down onto the school grounds for the past hour, thinking.

Ah, thinking. He hates it, how he has to mull over everything in his head repeatedly only to come up short. It's why he acts rashly most of the time; why he does things without hesitation. It's so much easier to just go forward spearheaded—why think about things when it'll only slow you down?

It's why Fred's usually the one to operate his and George's pranks. Fred has the ideas and more drive, and George takes precautions so no one is hurt, and makes sure that the pranks will work. It's the same with their joke shop. George has actually considered taking on a different career (and Fred knows that he is still considering it, even though George won't admit it to him), but Fred is determined. He has his mind set—everything he's doing right now is for the joke shop. Considering a different career is out of the question.

Well, it's supposed to be, except [Y/N] wants him to.

And if anyone can convince him to do anything, it's [Y/N]. He hasn't told her yet, but he's in love with her. Stupidly, madly in love. And he doesn't need to tell her this because she already knows, but Fred is willing to do anything for her.

Is he willing to give up the joke shop, though? He's not so sure.

His mind a muddled mess, he rises from his seat on the windowsill and calls, "Coming!" without even pausing to think about who might be behind the door. So when Fred opens the door and sees [Y/N] standing there looking ridiculously small in the oversized sweater his mum gave her for Christmas, he doesn't quite know what to say.

"Hi," says [Y/N] in a timid voice, and it's ridiculous because she never sounds like that around him. [Y/N] is loud and affectionate and isn't afraid to speak what's on her mind, so seeing her like this knowing that he's the reason why is making him feel ten times more horrible than he already is.

"Hey," Fred grimaces, gripping tightly onto the door because he feels oddly unstable on his feet.

Scratching the back of her head, she chews on her bottom lip—a nervous tic Fred is all too familiar with—and asks, "Can we talk?"

"Aren't we talking already?" he jokes weakly, but he steps forward out into the hallway and closes the door behind him with a quiet snap.

Now that the sound of George's snoring has mostly been muffled, Fred and [Y/N] are submerged in uncomfortable silence. It's strange and suffocating and awkward all at the same time, because feeling uncomfortable around each other is a rarity. Fred can't recall the last time he ever felt this way around her. He's pretty sure the only time he did was when he'd first asked her out back then, all those months ago.

Judging from the look on [Y/N]'s face, she feels the same way.

She clenches her fists at her sides, and with the willpower of a thousand men, meets Fred's gaze. "Okay. First off—I'm sorry."

Fred stares at her. She keeps going, talking rapidly as though the words will fade away if she doesn't get them out fast enough, "Second of all, I was an arse for making you feel bad for doing what you love to do, and that's my fault and again I'm sorry but I want you to understand that I did it because I want what's best for you."

She pauses, running an aggravated hand through her hair.

Fred opens his mouth to say something, but she doesn't notice because her distressed gaze is glued to the floor. Unknowingly, she cuts him off and keeps rambling, "And I'm not saying that the joke shop won't do well but just in case it doesn't, the last thing I want you to do is to look back a couple years from now, regret not even trying to crack open a book or two, and blame yourself. I know I can't tell you what to do but I'm just saying—I care about you, Fred—I truly do and it's just—" she takes in another deep, shaky breath, and says in a quieter voice, "I'm sorry."

For the first time, Fred is at a complete loss for words. No witty joke nor playful remark rests on the tip of his tongue. But there's an odd prickling feeling at the back of his eyes and a strange stinging sensation in his nose, like he's just inhaled pepper powder—

"It's fine," he mutters, scratching the back of his head as he rapidly blinks the prickling feeling away. "It's.. I understand."

[Y/N] swallows. She'd thought that once she got all of that off of her chest, the guilt itching at her would subside—but it's still there, just as insistent as ever. "I'm sorry," she sighs, shaking her head. "Truly, Fred, I—"

Fred hates thinking. So he just does what his brain tells him to do—what his brain has been telling him to do ever since he'd first pulled the door open and saw her standing there in all her beautiful, hesitant glory.

He pulls her into him and holds her tight.

"It's fine," he repeats into her shoulder. He'd caught her by surprise—he can tell because of the way it takes her a moment to relax into him. "It's fine, [Y/N]."

When she does relax, however, she melts into him the same way she has done so many times before; she wraps her arms around his middle, buries her head into his chest and holds on just as tight. Solace overcomes the feeling of guilt and agitation bubbling up in her chest, and it feels as though a switch has been turned off in her brain.

It's fine. It's okay now.

Fred takes a deep breath and nods repeatedly, like he's reassuring both himself and her. He whispers quiet apologies into her hair, and even though he doesn't say it directly, [Y/N] can hear him asking her to understand him.

Fred hates thinking—maybe that's why he has never really been good with putting his feelings into words. Maybe that's why he needs [Y/N] so much; because he doesn't have to translate the mess of thoughts in his head for her to understand. She just does.

[Y/N] pulls away by a fraction of an inch, eyes still closed as she leans her forehead on Fred's and whispers, both to herself and to him: it's okay, it's fine.

And somewhere in her whispered words of affection she accidentally lets three words slip out—three words she has never said before but have been waiting to be said for a long, long time—"I love you".

Fred closes the distance between them and presses his lips to hers. Mumbles the same three words into her lips like it's a prayer.

[shinyatiny]

Flower Crown - yungi

Chapter four: A new face

_____________________________

Three days passed by quicker than Mingi would have desired. For three days he's been covered up in woolly covers, gawking at the ceiling with wide eyes. Midway through his self-isolation, the fact that he has to attend the festival had settled into his mind. Just the thought of himself struggling against all those courageous fighters made him feel ill to the stomach. There's no way he could fight those guys and succeed. He wasn't a skilled fighter, he was a magic specialist. In the worst-case scenario, he'd get his ass whooped or get injured, and either of those scenarios doesn't sound good to Mingi, at all.

He had no idea how much time was left because he hadn't come out of his chambers for days. Maybe the guards would barge into his room at any minute and drag him out of bed. With a muffled grumble, Mingi freed himself out of the pile of blankets around his body and went to his wardrobe, opening the double doors and peeking inside. As one would guess, he hadn't changed his clothes for at least three days. He smelled, he smelled really bad and he was conscious of that.

Stretching for a towel that was situated on the highest shelf, he tossed it atop his shoulder and unbuckled the silver belt around his pants. Now would be a good time to take a warm, relaxing bath. Especially before the chaos that was about to unravel. Not caring to close the closet doors, Mingi made his way out of his room and wandered to the nearest bathroom. A few servants gave the elf prince several concerned glimpses regarding his condition, but Mingi overlooked them and fastened his pace.

Once he had arrived at the bathroom, he slid through the door and locked it behind him. Flicking the switch on, the azure fairy lanterns brightened the formerly gloomy bathroom. Mingi stared at the lights for a hot second with a smile on his lips before looking around the bathroom. The bathtub was in the corner, shampoo bottles and a petite, yellow rubber duck on the edge. There was also a small shelf next to the bathtub with some towels and other necessary stuff on top of it.

°❀°

After taking a fresh bath, Mingi covered his body in a warm towel and glanced at the mirror before stepping out of the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and began to walk back to his quarters to change into his attire for the day. The corridors were calmer now and he didn't have to rush back to his room. He presumably would have slipped and injured himself if he had run.

And when more servants began to speed through the corridors, he did.

He slipped and collapsed.

Roughly three servants halted in their tracks and turned to look at Mingi who just face-planted straight to the floor, a sharp groan leaving his lips at the collision. One of the observing servants offered their hand for Mingi to take, but the young elf decided to take a brave face and decline the offer. He stood up from his awkward position and scraped his nape in discomfort, a red tint appearing on his cheeks. "Hi." Mingi blurted out, glancing at his feet with pursed lips. Before the servant could respond, Mingi had vanished.

"Oh my god, that was extremely embarrassing," Mingi whined to himself as he jerked the door to his room open and hid inside. He slid down against the door and hid his head between his knees, chuckling to himself because of his awkwardness. The towel around his hips had nearly fallen, so he adjusted it as he stood up again. As he got an extra towel to dry his hair, the door to his room unlocked with a loud creak. Mingi turned around in panic, fists darting to the cloth around his hips to hold it in place. "Who-"

His heart stopped beating for a second when he recognized it was one of the guards, standing tall in the doorway with a spear in his hand. "Excuse me for barging in so abruptly, but I have come to get you, prince Mingi. Your father's orders." The guard spoke sternly, nearing the young elf. Mingi had never noticed this particular guard, and he was instantly intrigued by what kind of a person he was. He looked young, extremely young for a guard. His fiery red hair was vibrant and it made him look like a real soldier. "Prince Mingi?" The guard tilted his head to the side, curly strands of hair hanging down his forehead.

The named elf took a step back, glaring at the guard with narrowed eyes. "Can you at least let me change first?" Mingi answered smoothly, a sigh leaving his lips when the guard nodded in approval. "Thank you." He stated, relieved. But after ten minutes, the guard hadn't left the room. Mingi lifted an eyebrow, staring at the guard in confusion. "Are you just going to stand there and watch as I change? You're not here to enjoy the show, are you? So leave, I'll come when I'm ready." He rolled his eyes, an evident grin dancing on his lips. The guard squinted at Mingi, turning around without saying a word, and fled the room.

The young elf breathed in vexation, slopping back on his mattress. He had no ambition to attend the festivities anymore but his father kept neglecting him. Why does he have to prove himself? Why does he have to do it to prove his clan's capability to the other clans? Is it so challenging to find a more experienced warrior to fight in his place? There was no point for Mingi to join the fighting festival. He'd just embarrass himself, his father, and the rest of the clans. What would happen if he lost?

"Why do I have to do this?" Mingi whined, burying his face in his cushion, letting his body relax against the soft bedding. He knew he had to go, but his silky sheets were making him sleepy all over again. He was also aware of the fact that the guard was waiting for him behind the door and if Mingi took longer than ten minutes to change, the guard would barge in once again to check on him. With a groan, he heaved himself up and walked to his closet, eyeing all the piles of fabric on the shelves. "I know my father wants me to change into something traditional, but do I have to wear all those necklaces with bones hanging from them?" He whispered to himself, feeling one of his shirts with his fingers, humming.

A few years ago, Mingi wore his clothes to Lenaia and he got yelled at by his father because he was supposed to wear something more "traditional" like his father always said. But the bones and weird symbols weren't his styles, and they would certainly not pique any interest in anyone. Since then, Mingi has obeyed his father's orders and has worn different bone necklaces and weird armor at the festival.

But today was different, Mingi was the representative of the Iris clan and he had to look exemplary. The chief's opinion wasn't important right now, the only thing Mingi wanted was to look good in front of the other clans. So he decided to wear whatever pleased his eye today. Although his closet was quite full of clothes, he was able to pick an outfit for the festival.

Mingi chose to wear an oversized white shirt with golden buttons and elegantly laced sleeves. He tucked the silky shirt under some black leather pants and buckled his favorite silver belt on. For shoes, he decided to go with plain black ones. This was nothing like the traditional outfit, and it would unquestionably get people's attention, but that's what he was there for; for attention. His father used him for image, nothing else. The plan was to attack with everything he possessed and come out as the victor. Mingi was nearly convinced he would lose. On purpose or not.

After added five minutes of attempting to pick the most suitable necklace, he selected a basic golden chain. It was something he regularly had on and he fancied it quite a bit. Seonghwa had given the piece of jewelry on Mingi's birthday last year and he was delighted to accept such a present from his friend. As his outfit was coming together excellently, he reached for the earring on his desk only to find it gone. With a faint gasp, Mingi browsed frantically throughout the chamber but had no success in locating the earring.

He touched his ear in discomfort, perching down on his bed with a thud. "But I just received it from Seonghwa..." He muttered to himself, his delicate fingers moving towards his golden markings, exploring the swirls and twists beneath the silky shirt. The earring reminded him of his mother, it had already become one of Mingi's most cherished items. There was no way he'd lose the piece of jewelry just like that. "Did I forget it in the bathroom?!" He said, eyes wide with realization, instantly standing up and throwing the door open.

As he opened the door, a squeal echoed in the corridors. It was a servant who had dropped her basket of fresh, unworn clothes on the floor after the door had knocked her. She glanced at the prince and then at the basket, a panicked expression settling on her features. Just as she was about to apologize and bend, Mingi lifted his hand to stop her from executing her plan. "Please, don't. It was my mistake." He beamed, picking up the basket and returning it to her. "I opened the door without considering twice about the servants who rush through the corridors. So apologies for that, Miss."

The girl stared at Mingi in wonder, finding it difficult to accept how distinct Mingi happened to be from his father. He presented the girl with a nonchalant grin and gave her the remainder of the now-dirtied clothes. "I — It's fine, don't bug about it." She replied bashfully, taking the clothes from Mingi's hand. "I was in your way anyways..." She smiled shyly, taking a step back so Mingi could step out into the hallway.

He sighed, shaking his head with a smile on his lips. "Unfortunately I have to disagree, Miss. I was the one who opened the door in the first place, so allow me to at least take these now-dirty clothes to the bathroom." He quirked up an eyebrow, eyeing the basket in the girl's hands. "It's the least I can do."

For a moment, Mingi had completely overlooked the red-haired guard who was standing close to the doorway, eyeing him up and down. When Mingi finally noticed the young guard, his eyes opened wide in embarrassment. The guard narrowed his eyes and pointed at his wrist as if to show Mingi he didn't have much time. The young servant tightened her grip on the basket full of fresh clothes and glimpsed at Mingi and the guard with pursed lips. "Excuse me... but I can deliver this to the bathroom." She spoke quietly, gaining the prince's attention.

Mingi shook his head, declining her sweet offer. "I was on my way to the bathroom anyways. You can go back wherever you came from." He smiled, taking the basket from the girl's pale hand. "This fine young man can escort you back if you'd like." He smirked, pushing the red-haired guard towards the girl. The said guard, halted in his steps, turning to look at Mingi with a confused look which the prince straight-up ignored. "Alright, I'll be on my way then."

Before he could turn around, the guard had grabbed Mingi's forearm and tugged him towards himself with more strength than he originally wanted to use. Mingi's eyes went wide and he shoved the guard away from him with a muted hiss. "Let go of me." He muttered, already sensing the warm tingles scattering from his arm to the remainder of his body. "I know you're new and all, but you should understand it's not relevant to grab someone solely like that." He spat, caressing the markings on his arm.

The guard froze in place, letting go of Mingi's arm immediately. The anguishing silence went on for another minute, the only thing making noise being the hasty footsteps of other servants. Until Mingi's loud sigh broke that silence, it was painfully silent. He gave the servant girl an apologizing look before taking the basket from her and dragging the guard towards the bathroom with him. The burning sensation in his arm hadn't gone away yet and it clouded his mind, made him almost lose his balance as he walked. He glanced at the guard, rolling his eyes at the neutral expression he wore.

Mingi let go of the guard's hand when they reached the bathroom and opened the door, balancing the basket with his other hand. The wooden basket hung on his shoulder, making it hard for him to open the heavy door. "Could you help me with the door?" He huffed, giving up. The other nodded his head briefly before pushing the door open. "Thank you. Now, I have something to say to you...?" He trailed, looking at the guard with a questioning look. "What's your name?"

"Jongho." The guard answered without breaking a sweat, straightening his back whilst Mingi asked him some questions. "My name is Jongho, sir." He said. The way Jongho spoke formally made Mingi want to roll his eyes and sigh as loudly as he could. He hated the fact that servants had to "worship" their "masters". It wasn't fair to the servants and the names made Mingi feel like he was a king or something. Jongho noticed Mingi's crestfallen expression, cocking his head to the left. "Prince Mingi? Is there something wrong?"

"Drop the formalities, Jongho. Just call me Mingi." The blonde remarked, entering the bathroom with Jongho. "I never liked to be called the 'prince', it makes me feel sick to my stomach for some reason. Feels like I'm putting myself before everyone else, and it makes me feel worshiped, I don't like it." He explained, leaning against the counter. Jongho blinked twice before nodding slowly, scratching the back of his neck with a shy smile.

"But-"

"Come on, you can do it."

"P—Mingi," Jongho said awkwardly, stuttering with his words. "Are you sure I can call you that? Won't it be too awkward?" He added, anxiously looking for an answer in Mingi's eyes. The prince let out a breathy laugh, placing a hand on Jongho's shoulder like some old friends.

"Don't worry about it. We're basically best friends already, right?" Mingi laughed, nudging the other's shoulder. "Anyway, I have some questions." He said, taking the hand away from Jongho's shoulder. "Based on your reaction earlier, it seems as if you have no idea what markings are. That means you're either not an elf or you've lived under a rock your whole life. I think the first one is the case here, don't you think so too?"

As if getting hit by a frying pan, Jongho froze before Mingi, visible panic in his expression. The way he stopped functioning completely made even Mingi worried for a second. "I — what are you talking about?" Jongho laughed nervously, his grip around his spear tightening further. "Are you implying I'm not an elf?" He said, his other hand gripping the brown shirt he was wearing. "But I am."

Mingi raised his eyebrows, nodding while a sly smirk played on his lips. Jongho gulped under Mingi's judging gaze, eyes finding the floor. "Of course, I believe you. Oh, and out of curiosity, where's your Iris located? And what about your markings? Mine is on my forearm; in the same exact place you grabbed onto." He said, sitting on the marble counter, arms crossed. "Jongho, I can see through your hoax. I don't mind the fact that you aren't an elf, but lying like this isn't smart either, so spit it out."

"I'm am an elf."

"That's the best joke of this century."

"I-"

"Lying won't get you anywhere, Jongho."

Jongho raised his chin to look into Mingi's chocolate brown eyes, finding it a bit awkward that Mingi knew precisely what he was about to say. He didn't mind the idea of Mingi knowing about his true identity, but if he were to tell anyone else about it, it would certainly stir the pot a little bit. "Fine." Jongho sighed, putting more weight on the spear, almost leaning against the wooden object. "You guessed it, I'm not an elf." He raised his hand in the air as if he was surrendering. Biting his tongue, Jongho examined Mingi's neutral, almost disappointed expression for a few seconds before speaking again. "You seem disappointed,  Mingi ." This was the first time he had ever used the prince's name like this and it made things a little awkward, at least for Jongho.

The blonde let out a snort, shutting his eyes before speaking. "And you act like I hadn't figured that out already, Jongho." The way the red head's name slipped through his lips was almost cunning as if he was playing with the name on purpose. Jongho observed as Mingi hopped down the counter and made his way towards the bathtub, picking up a shampoo bottle, examining the label out of boredom. "Then what are you? You clearly aren't a fae because I don't see any shimmering wings on you. Plus you're more muscular than I am and faes are usually tiny and delicate, they're smaller than elves, maybe even smaller than humans."

Jongho sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose in utter frustration. The way Mingi talked made him somewhat annoyed, if not irritated even. "No, I'm obviously not a fae. You think a fae would be as big as me?" He snorted in unbelief, raising a questioning eyebrow at Mingi. "I'm a berserker, Mingi. You're familiar with berserkers, correct? You know, the fierce, powerful species of warriors? The species that are known for not using their brain?" He explained nonchalantly as if he were speaking to a five-year-old boy.

The said "five-year-old boy" blinked at Jongho, mouth open in disbelief as if he had just heard about someone's passing. His pointy ears perked up, proving he was attentively paying attention to every single word. A berserker in an elf village? That's something Mingi never imagined would occur, not now, not ever, nor has he seen a berserker before. He definitely thought berserkers would be larger than this, like the ones in his books. "You're a goddamn berserker?!" Mingi replied, eyes wide like huge plates. "I understood berserkers were this big," he said, raising his hand above his head. "and you definitely aren't. Damn, even I'm taller than you, Jongho." He continued with a low chuckle, disregarding the annoyed scowls he got from the younger. "How the hell were you able to get work from here?"

Jongho hummed with pursed lips, turning his head to the side as he considered for an answer. Mingi watched as the other's red curls fell down his forehead, formulating a definite picture of Jongho in Mingi's mind. Jongho was admittedly attractive, that Mingi couldn't dismiss, and the red, fiery hair made the entire masterpiece intact. Even in metal armor, Mingi was able to distinguish Jongho's sturdy build and his exquisite characteristics.

Jongho noticed Mingi gazing and coughed, attempting to gain the other's attention. Mingi blinked twice and panicked a tad bit before grinning widely, rubbing his nape. The guard rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. "I got in through someone I know, but you don't have to worry about that, Mingi." He explained hastily, not granting Mingi an answer. "I know being a berserker inside an elf community might not be the safest of ideas, but no individual has discerned yet, besides you of course. I believed my facade was flawless, but I suppose it was not."

"First of all," Mingi said, pointing a finger at Jongho's chest plate, adding pressure to the finger. "No elf is built like this, mister berserker. You have more muscle than everyone in the village combined, and that's a lot of muscle. Look at me for instance, you could presumably break all my limbs just by grazing them with your pinkie." He snorted, tapping the other's shoulder. "I mean, how the hell wasn't my father capable of recognizing you from the other guards? Sort of questionable if you ask me, but you assured me I don't need to worry about it, so I'll drop the topic for now. I know my father doesn't prefer to wait and we've wasted plenty of time in this darned bathroom. I got what I craved for anyways." He said, hand finding its way to his pocket, pulling the shiny piece of jewelry out.

"What's that?" Jongho lifted an eyebrow, staring at the earring Mingi was holding in his grasp. The golden star was peeking through Mingi's fingers, the chain a little messy from remaining in his pocket for so long. "Is that a family heirloom of some kind? Looks important." He spoke, detaching his back from the wall, walking to the door. Mingi hummed, letting the earring dangle on his fingers. "You know, you don't need to fight if you don't fancy to, Mingi. You appeared stressed when I reached your chamber, it's like you disliked the fact you had to go."

"Oh please, I never desired this in the first place, Jongho. My father's been pulling my strings from the very beginning. It's not like I can do anything concerning it." Mingi breathed, reaching for his ear with the earring and placing it in its rightful place. "But you're right, I don't want to fight, in fact, I want to leave this village and live somewhere else. But I can't. I presume my father intends on wedding me off to a woman from another clan, but I don't want to live my life like that. I want to live freely for as long as I can without being tied down to someone."

"Mingi-"

"And I don't want to settle down with anyone yet."

"Listen-"

"Do you understand, Jongho? I wish to explore the enchanted woodlands without a care in the world." Mingi babbled, disregarding the guard nonchalantly. "I don't even know if I-"

"Goddamn it, Mingi. Let me speak will you?" Jongho exploded, hitting the floor with his wooden staff. Mingi froze like a deer caught in the headlights, eyes fixating on the younger. The said guard sighed and tightened the grip on his spear, lifting a brow at the blonde. "Why do you speak so much? Gosh." He rolled his eyes playfully. "I'm sorry, but I can't do anything regarding your problem. If you say you don't have a choice but to attend the festival, then I can't help you. And as you just stated, let's not keep your father waiting any longer, I don't want him to hit you or anything of the like. Also, sorry for talking to you so informally, it still feels a bit improper of me to call you merely by your first name."

"I-" Mingi struggled, mouth hanging open as he thought of an answer. "It's perfectly fine, I understand your concern, but it's fine, truly. I hope you're not uneasy about me calling you by your name. I simply don't like to shove my title into each conversation I have, so using first names is the most beneficial for me."

"And I appreciate you being so thoughtful of others, Mingi. I haven't seen someone similar to you in ages." Jongho nodded with a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Now, shall we go meet your father?"

"Please, I don't deserve such compliments from you." Mingi beamed back, throwing an arm around Jongho's shoulder. The younger gave him a troubled look but accepted it nevertheless. "Let's go meet my old man."

°❀°

The chief was impatiently waiting for the pair, tapping the floor with his foot. The atmosphere around him was cloudy and dark which caused some of the servants to grow fearful of him. When he finally acknowledged the two figures strolling towards him, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Only after he realized what Mingi was wearing did his smile fade into oblivion. "Son." He stated coldly, eyeing his son up and down. "I thought I was very clear about the dress code. You seem to have forgotten about my orders."

Jongho glanced at the blonde, examining Mingi's carefree expression in confusion. The said elf quirked up an eyebrow, lazily grinning at his father like he didn't worry at all. "Oh, your orders were quite clear, I just didn't feel like following them, that's all," Mingi stated, stopping in front of his father. He stood in front of the younger berserker, keeping him behind for good measure. "You see, I'm there for attention, nothing else. I'm aware of the fact that I won't succeed even if I tried my goddamn hardest out there, and so are you. I have no clue why you concluded it would be an excellent plan to put your son, who isn't able to fight at all by the way, out there to compete. It just doesn't make any sense to me."

A visible crease appeared between the elder's brows, a grim expression forming on his face. Mingi had definitely hit a line there. "I think you know exactly why I want you to fight at the festival, Mingi." He stated, stepping forwards. "I've thought about this for months and came to the conclusion that it would be a perfect opportunity to prove what our clan is capable of. I'm sure you understand-"

"And you'd put me out there even though you know I'll get hurt and injured? You'd risk your own son for fame?" Mingi cocked his head to the left, disappointment written all over his face, but when Jongho looked closer it was as if the blonde knew exactly how this would go. "Heavens, father. You're the parent of the year. I swear I'll leave this godforsaken village after the festival." He sighed, grabbing Jongho's arm so they could leave his father alone. The berserker gasped at the sudden skin contact but didn't say anything about it, trailing behind Mingi as they made their way somewhere else.

"Mingi!" His father yelled from behind, making the young berserker grimace at the raspy voice of his boss. "Come back here this instant! I wasn't ready with you!"

Mingi chuckled to himself, fastening his pace, tightening his grasp on Jongho's hand. "Ignore him, he knows I'm right." He said with a wide grin, glancing at Jongho over his broad shoulder. "Also, do you know where I have to go so I can prepare for the battles? No one ever informed me and I never bothered to investigate either," He laughed.

"Of course," The berserker smiled. "I can take you there."

[missing-fanfics]

A Tribute

A/N: Sarah here, hello. Ky is in love with Finneas so she mostly wrote this, I just did a lil bit. Based on Finneas’s Bill Withers cover for the April 20, 2020 tribute. Link here ;)

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: grief, fluff, sadness

Finneas x fem!reader

~~~~

He sat at the piano, unmoving, for what seemed like hours. His hands ghosting over the keys, back straight, staring into the abyss. She stood on the final stair that led to the basement of the house, watching him, wishing so badly to take away his pain. Finneas always took everything to heart, especially when it came to music. When they got the news that Bill Withers passed away, she knew immediately that he would take it to heart. That had been a few days ago, when Finneas insisted that he film a cover to honor the man’s life. He had just found the courage to sit down at the piano bench an hour ago, yet not a single key resinated off of the basement walls.

Y/N walked behind the pale boy, trying to make her footsteps as loud as possible to snap him out of his trance without scaring him. Once she was in arms length, she tried calling out to him.

“Finn,'' she tried, her voice coming out hoarse and hesitant. She reached her hand out, placing it on his shoulder, he had no reaction, just kept his head straight. She took that as her que to move closer. Wrapping her arms around his back, Y/N moved so her lips were right next to his ear. The collar of his denim jacket scratched against her cheek.

“Finneas,” she tried again with his name, hoping to draw him out of his head, he turned his head just enough for her to see him. Tears sat at the edge of his eyes, killing her heart. She backed her face away looking at him fully.

“I can’t do it.” A single tear glided down his face, catching at the end of his nose, a weak smile formed on the edges of the mouth. She untangled herself from his back, moving to sit next to him on the small bench. Her body facing his side, slowly bringing a hand up to cup his face, thumb catching the fallen tears.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to do it today.” She said with a smile, thumb still lazily swiping against his tear stained face.

“It’s okay to take some time to finish mourning, no one would be mad.” He nodded his head against her palm. They sat like that for a while, slience filling the room as Y/N wiped away the sea of tears that fell out of Finneas’s blue dull eyes. She moved to cup his cheek and rested her forehead against his. His eyes were always so bright, electric even. She had never seen them so close to grey before.

He pulled away gently and brought his hand up to cover hers, his hand colder than expected. He removed their hands from his face and brought it to his lips kissing the center of her palm, she felt the scruffy beard against the bottom of her palm, it ticked and contrasted against the softness of his lips. He moved their hands away, finally linking them together.

“I love you.” He whispered, moving his face forward until their foreheads rested against each other again. His face hot against hers, the tears leaving a sticky feeling against her skin. He moved to rest his lips against hers. They shared a short kiss, before disconnecting.

“Will you stay here while I play?” He asked, voice still not going above a whisper.

“Of course Finn.” She moved off the bench, placing a kiss to the top of his head before going upstairs.

Finneas stared at the keys, inhaling a huge breath and holding it until his lungs burned. Before slowly letting it escape his mouth. He suddenly heard the scrape of a chair against the stairs as Y/N's face appeared again. She was carting down one of the wooden chairs from the dining table, dragging it behind her like a rollie bag suitcase. A weak smile plastered on her face as she lugged the chair across the room. Finally placing it behind the camera. She walked back over to him.

“You don’t have to do this.” She said again, placing her head on top of his.

“I know, but I want to.” He kissed the back of her hand one more time. Y/N walked away with a gentle smile and moved to sit behind the camera.

He began to play then. Softly pressing into the keys, looking down in his hands. She knew that he didn’t need to watch them to play the right cords. He knew this song and he knew how to play it, but he just wanted something to ground him and his music. The music that his idol made was the only way to connect them, even after his passing.

She be lying if she said that she wasn’t a little mesmerized watching him. Finneas looked so sad and his voice was so clear. To others it might seem that he was simply enjoying himself and his music. But she knew that he was losing the battle to not cry.

With every verse he hit the keys harder, his voice screaming out, the vibrato punching the air, and he kept hitting the keys harder still. He was suddenly small. He was a small boy hitting the keys with a grin on his face as his favorite singer played on the radio. Trying to learn the melodies his mother showed him. She pulled him onto her lap and covered his little hands with hers. He was a teenager turning up the stereo in his car that he finally got to drive. His new license sitting in his wallet. The feeling of freedom he never knew and as he shouted the words with a loud laugh. Whooping as he sped down that road. He was a young man humming to his lover the sweet music of his youth. She was wrapped in his arms as they laid on the couch in their new home. The housewarming gifts splayed all over. A gentle smile spread across his face as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. He was a sad man playing the piano to tribute to the legend that shaped him. Choking on the realization that the music that made him who he was, was fading out. Nothing more would be created from the soulful man he cherished. His heart ached in his chest painfully and he moved his head sharply as a tear won over his will and hit his hand that was slamming on the piano.

Finneas’s left hand pressed one final chord out from the instrument. Y/N didn’t realise she was crying until the song was finished, the last dark note ringing in the air. Finneas moved his hands off the piano quickly and just stared at the wood in front of him. She moved slowly, not wanting to disturb the quiet that settled. She sat next to him on the bench and rested her head to his shoulder.

“That was beautiful, Finn.” She whispered and he closed his eyes at her voice. Bill Withers was dead, this was something they both knew. But with his legacy and with his music, he wasn’t gone. Finneas sucked in a breath and nodded to her. The memories involving the blues and the passion seeped into his bones and he felt another tear fall down his face.

“My favorite.” He mumbled pressing the heels of his hand to his eyes. He smiled pitifully at her, his voice wavering.

“I bet he’s smiling down on all that he inspired.” Y/N looked up at him then and brushed the hair from his forehead.

Finneas looked up at the ceiling. He had never been a religious man, but the thought that Bill Withers was somewhere else in this life, looking down at the music he inspired and the people’s lives he touched granted Finneas some calm. Finneas smiled at Y/N and moved to press a gentle kiss to her mouth.

For the first time that evening, he felt happy.

Music has always been universal and he was glad he got to share in the experience of millions of others. Finneas was happy he got to love a legend and feel in his body and mind the soulful sounds that were created from a man born in another time. He looked up at the ceiling again and felt another tear fall from his face. It streaked down his cheek and was stopped by the fold of a grateful smile.

[aerisahale]

Multitudes of Memory

@korrasami-valentine-exchange

Words: 5,032 Rating: T Summary: Asami remembers five of her favorite memories with Korra in the process of repainting their house, and then she makes a new one.

A crash from the entryway pulls Asami’s focus away from the metalwork of springs and cogs before her. Korra was a bit later than she had expected, but she has been keeping herself busy. Gently laying the half-finished work on her desk, Asami exits her home office.

Along the way to the living room, she is surprised to find herself with an armful of excitable Korra just on the other side of the threshold. Korra babbles about how sweet the cashier was as Asami pulls them both down the hall and into the living room, coming to stand side-by-side in a mirrored pose of hands-on-their-hips and looks of determination. Asami asks, “You still want to do this, right?”

Waggling her eyebrows, Korra says, “Of course. You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“It was my idea!”

Korra puts her hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying it’s okay if you are.”

A grin slides onto the engineer’s face and she slaps a hand onto the pile of paint cans next to her with the same look of determination she wears after she has closed a particularly lucrative business deal. “No, let’s do this!”

Whooping with all the enthusiasm of a prospective retailer in a Future Industries factory, Korra is already dragging a chair out of the room, careful to avoid the pile of paint brushes, rollers, tape, and trays that must have crashed from whatever container Korra had originally brought them inside with. “I’ll start moving the furniture out of the room!”

“I’ll get the walls!” she shouts over the scraping of chair legs against hardwood that is too far gone to chastise her wife about picking things up instead of dragging.

Grabbing a nearby box that they had spent time assembling the night before, Asami starts pulling picture frames off the walls. Newspaper gets wrapped around each one before they get laid gently into the box. It is a repetitive process and she finds herself getting into the rhythm. It is only when her fingers brush the cool metal of a certain picture frame as her heart gives a thump against her chest, warmth of nostalgia takes hold, and she remembers the evening it was taken.

--

 Gentle but romantic piano music rises above the din of the restaurant as Asami tuck a strand of hair nervously behind her ear. Sitting alone makes her feel too conspicuous, already noticeable as the heir of Future Industries and the Sato holdings. Her fingers tap restlessly against the table, blunt fingernails tapping a beat against the table as the waiter brings her the glass of wine she asked for.

There are couples around her, dressed finely and sipping their own wine, nibbling on appetizers. The couple closest to her aren’t have a particularly scintillating conversation and she finds herself both nervous and bored. She suddenly wishes she had something better to do with her hands and presses a pattern into the stem of her glass, eyes roving over the restaurant as she waits.

Moments after, a commotion at the front begs her attention. She finds Korra dressed in a Water Tribe blue dress, arms bare, defined muscles on display for anyone to admire. When Korra greets her, she is breathy and it makes her wonder if it was nerves or if she genuinely ran here. Neither would surprise her. Asami hugs her and all of her own nerves from earlier melt away in the arms of the woman she loves. It never fails to amaze her how strong Korra’s simple presence can make her feel.

Reluctant to part, she knows she surprises Korra by holding on longer than would be normal. Korra’s arms tighten back around her and she takes a deep breath, sighing out against the other woman’s shoulder. They finally settle down at the table and begin perusing the menu, deciding to start with an appetizer of octopus fritters.

She asks Korra how her day has been, knows the other woman has been busy with politics. Korra along with Tenzin have been appointed as unofficial advisors in Zhu Li’s presidency and it has led to many long nights as they deal with various issues of running the Republic of United Nations. Asami herself had been a part of some of those nights as the unique blend of immigration and technological advancement in Republic City created as many problems as it solved.

Asami listens attentively until Korra shifts the conversation toward praising Asami for her latest invention allowing for faster, more efficient mail and package delivery after several rather large Spirit Vines had bottlenecked delivery by vehicle in several different areas. Glowing under the praise and reveling in how genuine Korra is as she delivers it, Asami is taken by surprise when someone other than their waiter approaches the table.

“May I take your picture for the Fire Ferret Times?” The camera is already in front of the speaker’s face.

Asami shares a silent conversation with Korra before they slide away from the table and wrap their arms around each other’s waist, heads leaned into each other. It is a short moment, and their meals arrived shortly after, but it still stands out as one of the best dates they had ever gone on.

 --

 The glow of the conversation that was interrupted still brightened their faces and the smiles they held were both genuine. The article that was run the next day about the parallels of finding balance in one’s personal lives to finding balance in the city, featuring Korra’s delicate balance of her duties as the Avatar and her individuality as a person was surprisingly well-written and was deserving of more credit than they had given the man on their drive home that night. There was a copy of it in a scrapbook on one of the shelves in Asami’s office.

Korra is back in the living room, giving Asami a questioning glance. She holds up the photo to her. “Remembering this night.”

“Spirits, you were gorgeous that night!” Taking the frame from Asami, Korra grins down at it. She looks thoughtful for a moment before she looks Asami up and down quite conspicuously and smirks. “Still are!”

Asami grabs the next photo as Korra wraps that one and places it in the box with the others Asami already wrapped. There are only a couple more photos and she runs a gentle finger down their wedding photo, the last to be placed in the box, taking extra care wrapping it. She places it gently on the top and closes the box, taking into the spot they had cleared out in the garage of their house.

“Asami!” Korra yells. “Look what I found!”

She is holding up a half burned red tablecloth and the sight of it catches Asami in surprise. A laugh bubbles up and bursts out. “I thought we threw that away!”

“Me too!” The Avatar is already grinning, but it grows wider as her eyes fly wide. “Wait! We got a bit, uh, distracted.”

“Oh, yeah!” Asami laughs as she hooks an arm around Korra’s waist and nuzzles her nose into her neck, eyes falling closed.

 --

 Varrick has been working on a secret project he only allowed Zhu Li to be privy to for months. When he comes to Asami, seeking to syphon off Future Industries private power grid, she had been understandably skeptical. She had even said no, at first, but several foiled theft attempts on Varrick’s part and a phone call from Zhu Li asking on her husband’s behalf, she had finally relented.

It had been a mistake.

Whatever the madman had done had shorted out half of the power grid for Republic City. It makes the rest of the day a frustrating one, fielding phone calls from her various factory managers, losses of product, and brainstorming with Zhu Li and Varrick about getting the grid back online. Eventually they call it a day and all Asami wants is to lose her troubles in her favorite dish at Kwong’s Cuisine but it is one of the many businesses affected by the power loss.

When she finally gets home, she is displeased to find she is out of power too. Her and Korra’s house laid on the dividing line of those who had been spared and those who were left without and it seems that her frustration was fated to continue. Familiarity allows her to hang her jacket up and throw the keys to the Satomobile in the bowl by the door.

“Korra?”

“Hey, baby. I heard you had a rough day. What do you need?” The woman in question walks out of the kitchen and pulls her wife into her arms.

“I need Varrick’s hairbrained ideas to stop effecting the entire city before he gets it right,” she growls out before realizing her tone and sighing, going boneless in Korra’s arms. “You’re not the one I’m mad at, I’m sorry. It was a rough day. How was your day?”

She tries to listen to Korra, she really does, but she gets distracted by the rumbling of her stomach. By the fourth growl, it is loud enough that Korra pauses mid-sentence to ask, “Have you eaten?”

“Spirits, no. I just wanted to go to Kwong’s but they were out of power too.”

“Lucky timing then because I ordered enough food to feed an army from Narook’s. I even got some of that artic hen you really like. I was about to go pick it up.”

“That sounds wonderful. I’m going to clean up as best I can without a shower but you can take the Satomobile. I don’t care if Kuvira is suddenly mounting a second invasion, I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

Pressing a kiss to her temple, Korra scoops the keys out of the dish Asami threw them into. “I’ll be back soon.”

Korra makes good on her promise and Asami is feeling much better when Korra comes through the door, both hands laden with bags of food that make Asami’s stomach growl all over again. She takes the bags from Korra’s hands and brings them to the table where she’s lit a couple candles for light. She lays the food out as Korra closes the door and takes her shoes off.

“Asami, this is so romantic!” Korra smiles.

Surprise registers as her eyebrows raise, a laugh bubbling up. “I hadn’t even realized. Our own candlelit dinner. Maybe today won’t end as badly as the rest of it was.”

Dinner passes quickly, more quickly for Asami than Korra. She has all but inhaled her food in her hunger, now describing all the atrocities the day had visited upon her as Korra finishes her meal at a more reasonable pace. Korra is howling in laughter as she recounts thwarting a particularly annoying theft attempt on Varrick’s part. After she’s finished and they both stop laughing, Asami wipes the tears from her eyes and glances around.

“We don’t have anything special for dessert but, I can grab a bottle of that dessert wine we brought home from that last trip to Ember Island.”

When she comes back, Korra has finished her plate of food, and Asami pours them both a glass of wine. As she sets it onto the table, the bottle knocks over one of the candles, the flame quickly catching on the fabric of the tablecloth it landed on. It takes them both by surprise but Korra is on her feet, quick to bend the water from a nearby vase onto the flames before the damage spreads further than the tablecloth.

“Thanks, Korra. I should have been paying more attention.”

“No harm done. You okay?” she asks, pulling Asami against her chest.

“It’s just been a frustrating day.”

“Perhaps I can help distract you from that?” Korra pleads with puppy-dog eyes to rival Naga at her sweetest.

“We should clean up,” she protests weakly, even though she already knows she wants it.

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

Asami lets herself be pulled into a kiss. It’s sweet and familiar as it soothes Asami’s frayed nerves. She presses a hand to the small or Korra’s back and pulls her body flush against her, kissing her for a moment longer. They stay lost in each other as they allow muscle memory to guide themselves to a more appropriate location.

 --

 “That night was far better than that day had been. At least Varrick restored power by the next day.” Asami laughs.

“Maybe we should keep a square of the tablecloth for the scrapbook?” Korra suggests. “We kept it all this time, apparently.”

“Good idea!”

Better to do it while it’s on her mind, Asami is quick to grab the scissors and the scrapbook from her office. As she is pulling the scrapbook down, another book tumbles from the bookshelf, pages flaring out as the spine hits the ground. It opens to a particular page and she is delighted at what she finds, so she picks that up and brings it with her as well.

She dances around the furniture Korra has shoved into the kitchen and sets everything on the counter. She calls Korra over, holding the contents of the book open on display. Korra’s eyes widen as she approaches.

“I remember this!” Korra says as she picks up the pressed blossom by the stem, twirling it in her fingers. Asami listens to Korra’s view of that night as she sets to cutting a good square out of the tablecloth, thinking about her own sequence of unfortunate events that evening.

 --

 There was a summit with the outlying Earth Kingdom provinces that had originally been resistant to joining the United Republic of Nations and Korra had taken their personal Satomobile with her to make the trip easier. The provinces in question were always peaceful in their resistance and their admiration of the way Korra and Zhu Li were handling the merging of the Spirit World and Republic City, a strong contrast to how Kuvira had demanded submission, had finally pushed them to reach out with an offer to make peace and finally formally join the United Republic of Nations.

Asami was already antsy since the night before since Korra was due home that day, a treaty having been signed the day before. She had received a garbled telephone call the day before that she was fairly certain she had heard correctly. She was certainly setting herself up for disappointment if Korra was delayed for some reason, because she could not contain her excitement after a week without her wife.

Borrowing a Future Industries Satomobile while her own Satomobile was absent for the week has been a small thing, but tonight is a nice, warm night and Asami wants to enjoy it with a walk. She takes a detour past a section of the city that had been particularly vocal about their displeasure with the Spirits and she wants to know if she can find a particular reason why.

The buildings are average as far as Republic City is concerned. The streets did not seem particularly crowded by vines, not anymore so than the rest of the city. A few apartments had been lost to the growth, but not enough to warrant the amount of complaints Zhu Li was receiving from this section. She made a mental note to look into the matter further, wanting to ask some locals questions. It was too late and too nice for that to be a venture for this evening.

It is too bright to really see the stars, but Asami definitely enjoys the cool breeze that cuts through the warm evening. There are not as many people as she would expect to find in the day, but the Friday evening has brought many people out of their homes for a night on the town. The street lamps cast a soothing glow across the buildings and people walking side by side, some hand in hand.

She had not been fruitful toward her originally intended investigation, but she did come upon a delightfully bright shop, bright colors popping in the lighting. It was bright enough to wash out the yellow of the street lamps and drew Asami in. Peeking at the floral arrangements on display outside the shop, she was startled by the hunched elderly woman who appeared at her elbow with a gravely greeting.

“What type of arrangement are you looking for, Ms…?” the woman asks, grinning like the cat that caught the canary. Asami is unsure if she was the canary, yet.

“Sato. Asami. They just caught my eye.”

“Oh, the Avatar’s wife, come! Come inside, I have the perfect arrangement.”

The floral scent inside the shop is strong. She is led to the back where a long counter where a pile of flowers lay, vases of different varieties angled behind the table to be grabbed easily. The old woman picks one last flower and places it in the center, the only one of its kind in the bunch, rolling it into a bouquet and tying the paper in place with a ribbon.

“What is this one?” Asami asks, pointing to the black and white flower in the center.

“Ah, that is the panda lily. It only grows in the Earth Kingdom, on the rim of volcanoes with certain soil and humidity conditions. Giving the panda lily to someone is a sign of great love. Quite ironic that I was just putting this together, don’t you think, Asami Sato?”

Deciding she is most certainly the canary, Asami is quick to agree and she paid the woman far more than the flowers were worth. A particular giddiness came over her as she carries them home. She had never bought flowers for Korra or anyone before. She had treated Korra to nice meals, jewelry, trinkets she built herself, but flowers felt sentimental in a way Asami did not often find herself.

By some stroke of luck, Korra is already home when she got there. Her wife is in the shower, so Asami searched through the storage closet in the garage for a spare vase to set the flowers in. The closet is a mess and several things fell out, narrowly avoided by dodging out of the way. It had taken fifteen minutes just to pack everything back into it after she found the vase she is looking for, but it is worth it to watch Korra’s tired eyes brighten at the sight of the flowers.

Watching Korra gently run her fingers over the petals of the panda lily, Asami recounted the story the elderly woman had told her. Korra listened intently, a smile growing on her face as she continued. By the end, Korra had drawn her into a tight embrace, arms encircling Asami while her face pressed into her neck. “Thank you, love.”

Asami held Korra tight against her. It had only been a week apart, but she had missed the closeness with her wife, the comfort she found with her arms around her. The solid presence of her made Asami feel like she could take on the world, had taken on the world with Korra by her side a time or two. Eventually, she began to feel the tremors running through Korra’s body and she pulled back, looking at her with all the concern she felt.

“Korra, what’s wrong?”

Turning her face away to rub at her eye with the sleeve of her shirt, her voice is steady when she says, “It’s nothing bad. It was just a very long week and I missed you very much. I’m a little overwhelmed.”

Korra reached out and touched the panda lily again. “I want to keep it. I want to remember what coming home feels like.”

 --

 Smiling sweetly, Asami gently plucks the panda lily from Korra’s fingers and presses it into the proper place in the scrapbook, and the red square of tablecloth finds a home a few pages before.  The scissors and scrapbook go back to their places in Asami’s office and she returns to tackle the living room with renewed interest.

Korra drags another chair out before tackling the couch. Asami asks if she wants help but the big, strong Avatar denies she needs it and Asami gets to laugh at her struggling to drag the big, overstuffed couch out while Asami herself drags a box that had been tucked behind it and forgotten about.

Opening the box, she finds the contents are random, seemingly thrown in there to clear space. She digs through it for a moment, before her fingers brush against a soft furred item that ignites her curiosity enough to seek it out. The stuffed animal she finds makes her smile.

 --

 The day starts with breakfast in bed, delivered to their door by the hotel staff. It is an Earth Kingdom specialty, oven-roasted pears stuffed with ice cream and crunchy sweet bread, a combination of flavors that Asami is certain she will never forget. She cannot help the moan that leaves her. Breakfast isn’t something she often indulges in and that makes it all the sweeter. “This is so good!”

She looks over at Korra to find the woman’s mouth stuffed full, cheeks bulging like a frog squirrel, and cannot help the giggles that overtake her. Judging by the empty plate held in her hands, the Avatar of legend has shoved the entirety of the breakfast into her mouth in one go. They do not get many moments like this back home when they are both busy, so her mirth grows to full on laughter when Korra tries to speak but it just comes out garbled.

After breakfast, they spend an hour lounging in the bathtub together, refilling it with hot water whenever the temperature drops too low. The scented oils and soaps that are provided are heavenly, and Asami takes the time to smell each one as Korra undresses to join her.

They talk about their future in a way they have not in a long time, politics, jobs, and life often too hectic to allow for the languid depth they find now. That they still have so much in common thrills the engineer and she wraps her arms around Korra. Asami holds her tightly, the warmth of Korra’s back against her front and the water surrounding them is relaxing. She presses slow, lazy kisses against Korra’s ear, neck, and shoulders.

They finish their bath and get ready to tour the city. They spend some time visiting each and every historical and art museums. Korra studies the displays that talk about Avatar Kyoshi. She knows Korra has fears about the future knowing she cannot access the memories and wisdom of her past lives, so she reminds her wife that she is not alone by lacing their fingers together, leaning into her side.

Korra leans back into her, still reading the aged documents that describe Kyoshi as a wise, long-lived woman who would do what was necessary to enact justice. It spoke of her victories over Tagaka to Xu Ping An and more. It was astounding how long she lived, trying to influence the justness of the world as best she could.

After they have visited every museum Ba Sing Se has to offer, Korra suggests they visit the zoo just outside the wall. It is not far from where they are but it is about time for them to stop and grab lunch, so they stop along the way. It is a Ba Sing Se specialty restaurant, with a bright green gem over the doorway that attracts Korra like a magpie to silver.

They are in the middle of ordering when Asami notices the head that peeks around the corner from the kitchen, and that is the only warning she gets before an older man is dragging the waitress down into a low bow beside him. He gushes to Korra and insists on burying them in far more food than they intended to order. Korra grins good-naturedly and is happy to get some extra food out of it. The owner hovers nearby, quick to jump into the conversation in any place that he can. Thankfully, the food is delicious and it only takes a few tries to get away from the chatty owner after they have finished and insisted paying for their meal.

The arching entryway of the zoo is taller than Asami by three times and she stares up at it before looking back down at the crowds of people roaming from exhibit to exhibit. There is a line to get into the park and it is warmer here than Asami is used to in Republic City so she unbuttons her blouse to bare her arms to the cool breeze that floats by.

A grin spreads across her lips when she catches Korra checking her out, not once but three separate occasions before they have even purchased their tickets. If it makes her stand a little straighter and hold her head a little higher, Korra does not say so, but the stuttering of the young man at the ticket counter does.

The first exhibit inside the park were platypus bear, being a favorite of the former monarchy of the Earth Kingdom. They thrived inside their private outdoor enclosure and Asami and Korra were both delighted to be able to get to see them.

Korra grabbed Asami’s hand and pulled her to the next exhibit, turtle seals, playing with each other in the shallow edge of the pool. Watching Korra’s eyes light up is the highlight of the trip so far for Asami. She sneaks away while her wife is distracted, finding a nearby vendor and buying a stuffed animal turtle seal. The delight on Korra’s face fills Asami’s heart to near bursting and she pulls her into a hug.

 --

 Turning the stuffed animal over in her hands, the same warmth of that moment makes her heart beat a little faster. She turns to show the animal to Korra when she comes back in from maneuvering the couch out into the kitchen. Korra’s grin turns sweet and she reaches out for it, giving it a gentle squeeze. “That was such a good day.”

Hefting the box up onto her hip, Asami holds it out for Korra to tuck the animal back into it and carries it out to the garage. They get the rest of the furniture moved into the kitchen and everything else packed into boxes in the garage. The stack of boxes is so much larger than Asami had originally thought it would be, but she had many years with Korra to accumulate things.

The empty living room felt weird so Asami is quick to grab the painter’s tape and start lining the trim and windowsills, Korra joining on the other half and they worked towards each other until they met in the middle, like they did in so many aspects of their lives.

Once the taping is done, they laid plastic to protect the hardwood from paint stains and then they set up a paint tray, each grabbing a paintbrush. One can of paint gets dragged over to the tray and the satisfying pop sends a thrill through Asami, excitement for the changes the new color is going to bring to their home sending goosebumps down her arms. It is an eggplant color that a part of Asami thought was the perfect amalgamation of their preferred wardrobe and an even better living room color.

They each grab a paintbrush and set to work filling in all the edges near the painter’s tape. It is tedious work and by the time Asami has reached the window in the center, Korra is already near her edge of it and she accidentally bumps into her.

“Hey!” Korra warns.

Asami’s eyebrow quirks. “I’ll show you ‘hey!’.”

Korra is clearly not expecting the hip check if the way she jolts sideways is anything to judge by. The flail of her arms as she tries to regain her balance has left a splotch of purple across Asami’s cheek that probably detracts from the indignant expression she is trying for. Asami grabs her own paintbrush and as soon as her eyes slide to the tray of paint, Korra is moving.

The race to be the first to the paint tray ends with Korra getting there first, but Asami pushes her forward so that her momentum carries her past it, jams her paintbrush into the paint and flings it at Korra who has just turned around to double back. Korra is quick to get her own paintbrush in the paint and flings a glob that splatters across the thigh of Asami’s pants, falling to land on her shoe

The ensuing fight leaves splatters of purple across not only the walls but the window, plastic, and both women. The laughter it causes is more than worth any trouble it may bring later and it had been a long time since they both fully abandoned adulthood for pure, innocent, but messy fun. Laying side-by-side, covered in paint, giggling with her wife is something she will cherish for a long time.

“Do you remember our first vacation together? When I went to the Spirit World for the first time?” Asami asks. Memories of neon spirits and tea with Iroh, the Dragon of the West, but most importantly Korra and their first kiss make her sigh happily. It did not take her long after that to know she was in love in a way she never had been before.

“How could I forget?”

“I never dreamed we would be where we are, almost two decades later. We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?”

“We have! It hasn’t always been easy, but we’ve come out stronger for the problems, I think.”

“Definitely.”

The day of reminiscing left her with the impression this would be a new memory she would remember for a long time. She considers getting a keepsake to commemorate the moment, but pushes it aside for a more appropriate time. Korra’s hand cups her jaw, pulling their lips together and Asami allows herself to get lost in it.  They had so many memories already, but Asami cannot wait for many, many more.

[scratchbandicoot]

Based on this lovely lil thing

He swears on all the comedy shows he’s ever watched, this would be the exact moment where things would freeze frame, record scratch, and insert corny line, like, “Hi, I’m Steve, you’re probably wondering how i got here-“

And normally, in a situation like this one, it wouldn’t at all be the case. Baking is like, a seriously mundane thing a lot of people do. Mostly housewives, grandmas or kids with their parents but it just so happens that Steve is the one doing the baking right now- and it should have gone without a hitch. So, 20 minutes of digging into the cabinets of his mom’s cook books- he began. He wanted it to be good, not a cop out box of mix because making it from scratch makes it more special. And it’s a fucking cake; how hard could it really be?

Apparently super fucking hard actually. Because what should have been a completely mundane, simple task that takes like 40 minutes tops- Steve was left with this. Referring to the absolute disaster that is his kitchen. There’s like, 8 eggshells scattered all over the countertop- one somehow ending up on the floor and another on his knee. There is a spilling bag of sugar on its side creating a hectic little pile that leaks onto the stove top- (Thank god for his parents expensive ass glass-top stoves.) Somehow he managed to spill olive oil around the sink when the recipe doesn’t even call for it- and to top it all off there is flour covering every inch of the kitchen and himself. The apron he has on does absolutely nothing, the powder covering his pastel blue cashmere button up- and he’s sure he somehow managed to get flour on places where the sun don’t shine. He’s three hours 45 minutes deep at this point and he knows he’s literally about to cry. He can feel his eyes burning with frustration and a huge lump tightening his throat with the threat of unshed tears. How did he get to this point? Well, lets backtrack.

It’s Billy’s birthday tomorrow . Steve has always done something special on Billy’s birthdays- even though he is like, super weird about gifts and being given things. Seriously, last time Steve gave Billy just a dumb little birthday card with snoopy dancing, and text that read ‘a big-smiling, fun-having, great-feeling birthday’- his nose srunched up like he had to sneeze and he gave the most awkward thanks followed by a back pat that- felt so absolutely “hiya pal” that Steve cackled out loud to the point he was in tears. Billy just burned red and sputtered all irritated, “Stop fucking laughing, Harrington.” Guy just cannot handle shows of affection.

This though, was a little more special. A little more personal than a rinky-dink peanuts birthday card- because billy really loved confetti cake. It brought back memories of his mom; how they used to bake the cake together on his younger birthdays, and how much he really missed it. Nothing could really beat the warmth of those memories, or the fondness painting Billy’s face when he recalled them- but goddamit- steve was gonna try, was trying, his actual best. He even convinced Keith that he’d take his next Saturday shift if he let him off the hook today to do this. His nonna had baked with him when he was young-like, 6- so he figured he’d pick it back up. Which was so not the case here. It’s safe to say he is more than a little rusty. So rusty in fact, that his old bike that he got for his 12th birthday that sits in the garage decaying and untouched, had absolutely nothing on him right now.

The first try was peppy; with a shimmy of hips and a waving whisk to the song playing from the sound system in the living room, and Steve thought genuinely that he did it right. He might have, maybe, with the recipe, but the lump of coal that was pulled out of the oven indicated heavily to the opposite. The smoke in the kitchen made Steve cough and gag, having to open up all the windows along with the screen door. The second attempt was a different outcome. Terrible, but different. A cake with singed edges and a liquidy inside that stuck to the pan and got scraped out with an uncermonious plop into the garbage. Mush, really, something akin to the texture of apple sauce. The third attempt Steve really focused, he swears, but that just ended up with a cake that didnt even rise and he was back to square 1 before he knew it with a beautifully new sense of defeat.

So, before he had an actual mental break over a goddamn cake he knew 7 year olds could make better, he called up Ms. Henderson for help. The lady is practically a god when it comes to baking and he really does not know how she does it. Whips out cookies and tarts and cupcakes like it’s going out of style.

“Hmm...oh! Sweetie, I think it might be the cornstarch. It sinks to the bottom of the pan if you don’t add baking soda- did you add baking soda?”

Steve glances at the forgotten unopened box of baking soda leaned against the stoves backsplash. He slaps himself mentally.

“Um, no. No i did not do that.”

“Well then, that’s it! You simply forgot a key ingredient is all. Not a big deal in the slightest.” Ms. Henderson was always very sweet to steve. Maybe because Dustin had become a little brother to him, but she never ever made him feel dumb. Always assured him mistakes are simply human.

“Right, right, yeah. I’ll add that. Thank you Ms. Henderson.” Steve goes to run a hand through his hair but is met with the headband pulling Steve’s hair from his eyes.

“Its Claudia sweetie, you know that.” Steve could hear the smile in her voice. She makes him feel better.

She gave a few more tips, how just white sugar might dry out the cake when used too much and using brown sugar will make the cake’s texture fluffier. He thanks her and hangs up with a sigh. Back to work.

He follows each step meticulously, following Claudia’s directions to a T and slips it into the oven; prays to god that this will be the last time he tries this. He’s only got one egg left and the overly sweet assortment of smells is starting to make him nauseous. After 45 excruciating minutes, Steve huffs and pulls out the cake. It looks... actually it looks like a cake. He smiles crookedly- holding his breath as he slips the cake onto the tray. It comes out in one piece, albeit lopsided, Steve whoops. He finally fucking did it- the cake actually looks like a confetti cake- and Steve is just so fucking proud of it, already going in to make the frosting before theres a ring at the door.

He frowns, wiping the flour on his watch head. It’s midnight- 12:07 am. Jesus christ, he started this at 7 pm, he didn’t even realize-

He hurries up to the door trying to wipe off the flour and make himself semi presentable. The door swings open and it’s Billy. He’s holding a six pack of Natural Light and a smirk that warps into a surprised raise of his eyebrows at Steve’s current state. He’s sure he must like he just ran a drug cartel or something.

“Hi, pretty boy.” Billy says as he walks in, checking Steve up and down. “Whats uh, whats up with your threads? Look like you jumped head first into coke or got real personal with Frosty the Snowman”

Stve rolls his eyes. His breath catches when he sees Billy start walking to the kitchen. He runs and blocks Billy in the doorway.

“You can’t go in there.”

Billy frowns, “What, you actually got drugs in there or somethin’?”

“No- you just- you can’t go in there. Not allowed.”

“Cmon baby whatcha got in there?” Billy starts to nudge past him; never was good at waiting.

“Wait, no- Billy- don’t-“

Billy takes in the state of the kitchen with a confused look and low whistle before his eyes land on the unfrosted confetti cake sitting on the kitchen island in all it’s lopsided glory. He freezes.

Steve waddles up behind him; following his gaze as he chews on his lip.

“I’m sorry, didn’t have time to make the frosting. Wanted it to be a surprise.” Steve scratches the nape of his neck sheepishly.

Billy’s still just standing there, and for a moment Steve is afraid he overstepped. That he was hijacking a moment from Billy’s mom that was only okay to do if she did it. He tries to get a read on Billy from his side profile since Billy is only turned slightly towards him but he can’t. A few more seconds of Billy standing there- and what Steve hopes is stunned silence- before Billy quietly murmurs,

“You made me a confetti cake?”

Steve holds his breath after a strained little, “Yeah.” The unshed tears from earlier are threatening to fall again, “You said you loved confetti cake, and that it made you happy. Wanted to make you happy.”

Billy spins on his heel fast, catching Steve’s face in his hands and lips with his own. Steve’s heart bursts and jerks a little with the surprise. It’s a chaste thing, just a press of lips, before Billy pulls away.

“You’re so... you just...” Billy trailed off and it was, like, a huge thing for Steve in that moment. Billy? Speechless? Steve never thought he’d see the day. It makes his face heat but his heart full and he beams.

“I’m... what?” He draws out.

“Fuckin’- somethin’. You’re somethin’ else.” Billy tugs him in by the waist and uses the other hand to swipe at the flour on Steve’s cheek. He looks so goddamn fond it makes Steve’s heart rate skyrocket.

“Is it okay?”

Billy hums, “It’s so okay. So much better than okay.”

He presses sweet little kisses to Steve’s lips and Steve can’t stop smiling.

“Well,” he says between pecks, “I wanted to do something special.”

Billy hums again, kisses trailing pepper like to his cheeks, his forehead, his nose and now down his neck.

Steve fights down the urge to shiver as he wraps his arms around the other’s shoulders. But-then he feels a wetness at the crook of his neck and makes a soft concerned noise at the back off his throat. He tugs Billy gently off and is met with blue, glassy eyes. Billy was tearing up.

“Thank you.” Billy says wetly, gently, before hugging Steve tight. “God- i- thank you.”

Steve smiles sweetly, hands going into Billy’s hair. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t need to. Knows that this is Billy being happy, knows that this isn’t bad, knows Billy. Loves Billy.

Steve pokes Billy’s sides- grins, “Happy birthday, baby.” And punctuates it with a kiss.

[deathsmallcaps]

June’s Story

My fourteenth Win a Commission is The Twelve Dancing Princesses! If you’d like to see my illustrations and read the chapter, please 

Once upon a time there was a king who had twelve daughters, each one more beautiful than the last. They slept together in one room, where their beds stood next to each other. At night when they were lying there, the king closed their door and barred it. However, when he opened it the next morning he saw that their shoes had been danced to pieces, their socks threadbare, their feet more callused than ever. No one could determine how it had happened, as their rooms were as silent as a tomb every night. 

So the king proclaimed that whoever could discover where they went dancing each night could choose one of them for his wife and become prince consort after his death. However, anyone who attempted this, but failed to make the discovery after three days and nights, would forfeit his life. The king had only proclaimed that so no one could put on a disguise and try again, and that no one unworthy would try. After all, this would all be solved soon! Little did he know, that his assumptions were gravely wrong.

A prince soon presented himself, offering to undertake the venture. He was well received, and that evening was taken to a bed next to all of theirs. He was told to watch where they went and danced. So they would not be able to do anything in secret, or go out to some other place, the door to their room was left open. However, the prince's eyes felt as heavy as lead, and he fell asleep. When he awoke the next morning, the twelve had been dancing, for their shoes all had holes in their soles. The same thing happened the second and the third evenings, and his head was chopped off without mercy. Many others came to try this risky venture, but they too all lost their lives.

Now it happened that a poor soldier named Walter, who was an amputee and could no longer serve in the army, was making his way to the city where the king lived, hoping to find work. His soul seemed restless, wanting to move and never stop, but he needed shelter, and rest. He had once dreamed of being an cartographer, mapping the wastes and strange lands surrounding the kingdom. He had thought joining the army would give him the freedom and money to visit other lands. However, the recent civil war had squished out his dreams and left his soul flapping almost untethered, like a flag in a storm. He had to keep moving. It was winter, the wind howling into his face and across the plains, scraping off the bare skin on anything alive and uncovered. And since there was no shelter, the only thing he had left was to keep going. Going. Going. 

On the way there, shivering and miserable, but unable to stop, he met an old woman going the other way. She only wore a threadbare dress, ecloak, a single shoe and an empty water skin. She was old enough to be his mother, but at the sight of her something, perhaps unpleasant and perhaps not, stirred in half of his heart, something that hadn’t been touched in a long, long time. Despite the odd feeling, the soldier, a kind and honorable man, stopped and offered the last of his meager food and water supply, and one of his shoes (he only needed the one, for he had lost his other foot). He ignored the strange flickers, and thought only After all, my destination is closer than hers, and I can use my crutches to make sure my foot does not touch the ground. The next town in the direction she was going was miles and miles away, and his was finally visible. 

Grateful, the woman made conversation despite the bitter chill. “So you’re going to the capital?”. Her high and rough voice seemed to be like a slightly more mellow version of the wind’s. He merely nodded. She queried, “Why?”

"I'm not exactly sure myself," he said, then jokingly added, "But I would like to discover where the princesses are dancing their shoes to pieces, and then become king."

"Good luck," said the old woman. 

The soldier smiled and thought, Perhaps I will go to the palace. They will be honor-bound to accept me as a contender and give me food and shelter, and it IS my only chance at survival during such a storm. By the time that I could find a family willing to put up a stranger for a night, I might well be dead. I will certainly die if I stay out here. Out loud, he thanked the woman, and said, “Are you sure you do not want to come back to the city? I’m sure if I said you were my mother, the palace would also put you up for a couple nights. My name is Private Walter Johnson, ma’am. You can be Mary Johnson. That was my mother’s name, bless her heart, and I don’t think she’d mind if you impersonate her. She’d probably want someone alive because of it rather than dead like her.”

The old woman smiled back, her face crinkling in ways it seemed it wasn’t accustomed to, and replied, “No, but thank you. I’ll be going now.” 

They made their goodbyes, and as the soldier turned his back to the woman, he felt her hands grasp his shoulders. 

The sudden contact made him freeze up, not in fear, oh no. He was not being triggered. Something - someone - was holding him in place. A cold sensation traveled his spine. The old woman’s voice, suddenly youthful, but still rough, breathed into his left ear, “Not many would show such kindness to the North Wind. You are fortunate that you did. Here is some advice: Do not drink the wine that they will bring you in the evening.” Then she clasped a cloak onto his shirt and said, "When you put this on you will become invisible, and you can follow the twelve girls."

The contact on his shoulders suddenly disappeared, whatever holding him in place gone. He whirled around, and all he heard was a cackle as he saw a white burst of snow in the silhouette of a beautiful lady dissipate in the wind. 

Having received this good advice while feeling cold and quite scared, Walter carefully placed the mysterious cloak (it didn’t warm him - in fact, it seemed to make him colder) into his bag, became serious, took heart, went to the king, and announced himself as a suitor. He, like the others, was well received, and was given royal clothes to wear. 

Walter tried on the cloak after a bath. It was still cold, but no longer unpleasantly so, and when he held it over his hand, all he could see was the floor underneath. When he covered himself in it (it was quite a long cloak) and looked toward a mirror, he had no reflection. Ecstatic that he might actually win, he whooped for joy and went to eat with the king. 

That evening he was escorted to the bedroom. Just as Walter was going to bed, the oldest princess brought him a goblet of wine. However, he had tied a sponge that he had borrowed from the bathroom beneath his chin and let the wine run into it, drinking not a single drop himself. He lay down, and after a little while began to snore as if he were in the deepest sleep. The twelve princesses heard him and laughed. The oldest one said, "Poor cripple! He could have spared his life as well!"

Then they got up, opened their wardrobes, chests, and closets, took out their best clothes, and made themselves beautiful in front of their mirrors, all the time jumping about in anticipation of the dance. Only the youngest one said, "I'm not sure. You are all very happy, but I'm afraid that something bad is going to happen!"

"You goose," said the oldest one. "You are always afraid! Have you forgotten how many princes have been here for nothing? I wouldn't even have had to give this soldier a sleeping potion. He fell asleep deeper and faster than any of the others."

When they were ready, they first approached Walter, but he did not move at all, and as soon as they thought it was safe, the oldest one went to her bed and knocked on it. It immediately sank beneath the floor, and they all climbed down through the opening, one after the other, the oldest one leading the way. The soldier saw everything, and without hesitating he put on the cloak and followed after the youngest one. Halfway down the stairs one of his crutches caught on her dress. Frightened, she called out, "Who's there? Who is holding my dress?"

"Don't be so stupid," said the oldest one. "You just caught yourself on a splinter."

They continued until they came to a warm, magnificent walkway between rows of trees. Their leaves were all made of silver, and they shone and glistened. 

The other half of his heart stirred, and Walter realized this was what he had been missing all his life. Magic. He thought to himself, "You'd better take some proof," and he broke off a twig.

A loud cracking sound came from the tree. The youngest one called out again, "It's not right. Didn't you hear that sound?"

The oldest one said, "That is just a joyful salute that they are firing because soon we will have our princes."

Then they came to a walkway where the trees were all made of gold, and finally to a third one, where they were made of clear diamonds. He broke a twig from each of these. The cracking sound frightened the youngest one each time, but the oldest one insisted that it was only the sounds of joyful salutes of guns. They continued on until they came to a large body of water. Twelve boats were there, and in each boat there sat a handsome prince waiting for them. Each prince took a princess into his boat.

Walter sat next to the youngest princess, and her prince said, "I don't know why the boat is so much heavier today. I have to row with all my strength in order to make it go."

"It must be the cold weather," said the youngest princess. "It's too cold for me as well."

On the other side of the water there was a beautiful, brightly illuminated castle. Joyful music, kettle drums, and trumpets sounded forth. They rowed over and went inside. Each prince danced with his princess. The invisible soldier danced (as best he could) along as well, and whenever the youngest princess held up a goblet of water, he drank it empty as she lifted it to her mouth. This always frightened the youngest one, but the oldest one silenced her every time. They danced there until three o'clock the next morning when their shoes were danced to pieces and they had to stop. The princes rowed them back across the water. This time Walter took a seat next to the oldest princess in the lead boat. They took leave from their princes on the bank and promised to come back the next night.

When they were on the steps Walter went quickly ahead and got into bed. When the twelve tired princesses came in slowly, he was again snoring so loudly that they all could hear him halfway up the steps. "We are safe from him," they said. Then they took off their beautiful clothes behind folding screens and put them away, placed their worn out shoes under their beds, and went to bed, the magic of the party making them not need much sleep.

The next morning the soldier said nothing, for he wanted to see the amazing cave once again. He went along the second and third nights, and everything happened as before. Each time they danced until their shoes were in pieces.

The hour came when he was to give his answer, and he brought the three twigs under his cloak. The twelve princesses stood behind the door and listened to what he had to say. The king asked, "Where did my daughters dance their shoes to pieces?"

Walter answered, "In an underground castle with twelve princes." Then he told the whole story and brought forth the pieces of evidence. The king summoned his daughters and asked them if Walter had told the truth. Seeing that they had been betrayed, and that their denials did no good, they had to admit everything.

Then the king asked him which one he wanted for a wife. He answered, "I wish to not pursue any of your daughters, begging your pardon your majesty. All of them are already in relationships, and I wish to pursue someone else. So with your permission, sir, I would like to lead a well-funded and comfortable expedition up North. 

The King, shrugging, agreed. The twelve dancing princesses were punished, for all the lives of the men that had died for their dancing. They were made to work for 3 years, their hands becoming as callused as their feet and hearts. All but the youngest sister hated and complained about the work, for only she understood the punishment and knew she owed those who lost their lives. The King made her his heir, recognizing her penitence and intelligence, and banished the rest to lonely castles at the edges of his country. The magical princes were never seen again. 

Walter headed North. 

He gave every person in need he met a meal and a chance to tell their story, despite his rapidly depleting resources, mapping out the lands as he went. He at first gave food, and then money, and then his warm clothes, giving and giving, happy to just be living his life and dream, his soul almost complete.

Eventually, Walter made it to a solemn, lonely palace, more north than anything else in the world, starving and thirsty, his money gone, his clothes almost in the same condition as that fateful day on the road. He knocked on the door.

It swung open. The North Wind stood just inside the hall. “Hello,” Walter greeted. 

“Hello,” said the North Wind, and let him in.

THE END

My Notes

I don’t know if you noticed, but I sure did change some aspects of the story!

When I picked this story, it was past midnight in Fall 2017 and I was TIRED. Also, my friend had me briefly hooked on a show called Sherlock. Somehow, my man the soldier, became named Walter Johnson because that is the kind of opposite of John Watson. I don’t exactly remember my thought process behind that, but I’ve thought it was funny ever since.

I’ve fleshed out Walter’s character as well. He is an amputee, I have given him more lines and motivations, and he is a trans man. I don’t think you could tell, as it is not the point of the story, but I realized that I was sorely lacking LGBT+ characters in my coloring books. So yes, I realize this is kind of a Word of God addition, but I think it works! I liked the idea of him being a kind, helpful wanderer, and I especially liked the idea that he found a home with the North Wind. 

I have also fleshed out the ‘hag’ character. Originally, she was just a random magical hag. But I love the idea of the Snow Queen/North Wind (she comes back later) so I decided that she is both the cause of the cold weather which drives Walter to the castle with the tools to save himself (thus resolving the kingdom’s deadly vow situation) and the reason he leaves the castle.  

Ok! Now onto the art explanations.

You cannot understand the temptation I had to just make the North Wind look like Elsa. But after I saw Frozen II, I had the idea that I could make her look like the Sámi people (who the Northuldra people were based off of). So that’s why she has that really cool, complicated hat! It’s part of their traditional attire. She has wind swirls because she’s disappearing.

Walter has a wicked scar. I just wanted him to look super cool. Combined with his little earring, I think he looks kind of like an adventurer. So I think he looks super appropriate for his personality. If he was a modern dude, he’d wear a leather jacket with bright colored inner lining and cool pins on the outside.

Originally, I kind of wanted to draw the pretty forest, but then I realized I would have to draw a bunch of humans, branches, leaves AND even more details. That was intimidating. Instead, I drew the passageway down - and that got a little hard too! Spirals are hard, dude! Less hard than a forest, but still! It even has a spiderweb!

I figure a stairway on one leg, while trying to hide your crutches and yourself under one cloak, all while trying to be quiet (it isn’t a cloak of indetectability after all), would be totally exhausting. So that’s while Walter is chilling for a bit on the stairs. His stump is poking out a bit in the picture. 

The dotted line for the invisibility is a pretty traditional display. I think the earliest example I’ve come across is a Fantastic Four comic (Marvel superheroes) where the Invisible Girl is represented by the dotted lines.  

The third picture made me realize I had no clue what I wanted the princesses to look like. So I just watched some TV and drew two characters I saw there lol. 

As for the title, I just wanted to get geometric about it. You may have noticed all the names in the petals - I just wanted to think of a bunch of pretty names, lol. I’ve been drawing a lot of flowers lately. 

I hope you had fun coloring!

@boopboopboopbadoop​ 

[emberbent]

Book 2: Air | Chapter 4: Bending Embers

“Idiot,” Yanyu scoffed. She was a mean-faced woman of indeterminate old age; though she wore civilian clothing, her long, gray queue and sharp, precise movements gave her away as having had Dai Li training. She cast a disgusted sneer at the Avatar, who was held fast to a chair with hand-shaped cuffs made of unforgiving stone, entranced. “I can’t believe she fell for it.”

“I can’t either,” the Org lackey grunted. He sat beside the chair on the floor, taking a rest with his arms curled around his bent knees. He’d lit the fireplace to stave off the chilly late-autumn draft that had swept into the room. “Name’s Nobu, by the way.”

“Can’t say I really give a damn what your name is,” Yanyu replied airily. Then, with more force: “You know what I’m here for.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nobu rolled his eyes. “Hang on a sec.” He yanked his radio out of its holster on his belt and held it up to his mouth. “Agent Tanaka to Command. Avatar has been captured and is ready for transfer, over.”

The response was immediate. “Very good. See that she is brought to me in one piece. Over.”

“Wilco. Over and out,” Nobu said into his radio. Hauling himself up into a standing position, he twisted a couple times to the left and right, cracking his spine. “Man… I’m getting too old for this.”

“Oh, please,” Yanyu spat. “Don’t talk to me about being old. I want my money.”

Nobu stood firm. “You know the deal. We get her transferred, and then you get your cut.”

Yanyu rolled her eyes. “Fine.” Then she looked again at the pacified Avatar, eyes open but unseeing, face still. She produced from the inside of her robe pocket a little vial of thick, black liquid. “Let me give her more of this before we take her.”

“What is that?” Nobu inquired, squinting at the substance.

Yanyu uncapped the vial and, with a hard curling of her fingers, removed the sludge and let it hover in the air for a few seconds. “Insurance,” she smirked. “Gave her some of this when she was a kid just in case. This’ll help her stay nice and quiet on the trip.”

With a slow, tight twist of her hand, she propelled the wobbling blob toward Shinza.

“Open,” Yanyu instructed.

She obeyed. The sludge brushed her bottom lip.

Hey. Hey! Wake up! shouted a familiar voice in Shinza’s mind.

Her hand twitched. 

“Hurry!” hissed Nobu. “She’s coming out of it.”

Shinza! Wake the fuck up, you’re in trouble!

“No she’s not,” Yanyu replied arrogantly. “Shinza… you are a good, quiet girl.”

Korra’s palm was hot and hard as it struck Shinza’s face. “Wake! Up!” 

Shinza bolted upright, dazed, as she found herself in the spirit room with Korra. “What…?”

“You have to wake up,” Korra urged. “It was a trap. The Org and some bitch named Yanyu are kidnapping you. Get up.”

Slowly, stupidly, Shinza looked at her hands, her arms. Realization dawned on her. As if piped in through an old-time intercom system, a voice came to her: “You are a good, quiet girl…”

She was awake now.

“I can help you, but you have to fight. Ready?” Korra urged.

On the physical plane, Shinza’s eyes shot open, glowing white with the force of Korra’s guidance. A howling wind kicked up around her, throwing furniture around the room as if it was all made of paper. The earthen cuffs crumbled away and she stood up from the chair. 

“I am no such thing,” Shinza bellowed; the wind was deafening, but her voice rang out above it, bolstered by Korra’s voice layered behind it. With a sharp jab, she shot a blast of fire at Yanyu’s head.

Yanyu swiftly ducked and rolled, grounding herself in a solid horse stance and sending her foot downward, hard. The cement slab beneath their feet broke into shards like brittle candy, shredding the carpet above it; Yanyu directed the shards inward, aiming to capture Shinza’s legs. Narrowly, Shinza leapt upward on a current of air, the cement scraping at the leather of her boots. Behind her, Nobu snuck up and wrapped his arm around her neck, cutting off her airflow with the crook of his elbow. Flailing, Shinza kicked both legs out high, striking Yanyu in the jaw in an attempt to wriggle free. Nobu flexed his bicep. Shinza saw stars. He snared her wrists behind her back and wrestled her to the ground, stomach to the earth with his knee hard on her back.

“Stop fighting!” Yanyu commanded over the cutting wind. Gesturing with her hands, she summoned the crumbled earthen cuffs; they reformed and flew toward Shinza, stony fingers curling--

Shinza uttered a deafening howl. The gale picked up with sudden, ferocious force and sent Yanyu and Nobu both across the room in different directions, their bodies thudding against the walls. She got to her feet. Nobu, fazed and angry, bolted upright and lunged for her. In a split second, Shinza’s eyes went to the fireplace. Her hand shot out, summoning the smoldering embers forward. Then she thrust her fist at Nobu, sending them into his eyes.

Nobu screamed, clutching at his face and falling to his knees. The smell of charred flesh permeated the room.

Behind her, Yanyu drove her bony knuckles into Shinza’s spine. Once, twice, but before she could land the third blow, Shinza whirled around, catching Yanyu’s arm in her grasp and twisting until she heard a loud pop. Yanyu yowled defiantly, her hard green stare daring her to continue. Shinza yanked her other arm forward, gripping it hard and twisting at the shoulder so Yanyu couldn’t move.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Yanyu growled.

Shinza snapped her arm with a nauseating crack. “You will never block anyone’s bending again.”

In the recesses of her mind, Korra whooped and hollered triumphantly, and then slipped away. The white glow receded from Shinza’s eyes, and the gale subsided. The room was in shambles. Yanyu lie passed out on the floor, and Nobu crouched near the crooked bed, wailing, blinded, burned.

“Why? Why would you do this?!” Nobu cried. 

Shinza sank to her knees near him. “Would you really have let me go if I’d asked politely? I don’t think so. I don’t believe you would have reasoned with me.”

“The Avatar is not reasonable,” Nobu argued miserably. “You’ve proven that today.”

“I’m sorry you see it that way.”

“I don’t see anything now because of you!” he spat viciously, lunging at her in rage but toppling, unwilling to remove his hands from his blistered face. He sobbed. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way. I was supposed to turn you in, collect my bonus, and retire.”

Shinza studied him. Greying at the temples; muscled, but he probably had to work harder to stay fit than he used to. Maybe he had a wife and grown kids. This was just a job to him - one with a good pension, by the sound of it. Nothing personal.

“What do you really think of the Organization?” Shinza inquired. “Of the Avatar?”

“I don’t know,” Nobu sniffed. “I don’t care anymore. Leave me alone.”

Shinza’s gaze narrowed on him. Was he really letting her go? “Okay then. I’m walking away.”

“Go. Get a head start before I change my mind. Just know the big man won’t be pleased when you don’t arrive. He’ll send out another crew, a better one, and they won’t treat you well.”

“That’s fair,” she said. Then she turned for the door, stepping carefully over Yanyu’s prone body and opening the door. With one foot over the threshold, she turned back. “By the way, the healers in Republic City are top notch. They’ll fix you up.”

Nobu scoffed. Shinza stepped into the chilly air, sticking her thumb and index finger into her mouth to whistle for Xia. But before she could make a sound, the ground rumbled beneath her feet. Shinza turned back to see the pointy end of a shard of concrete leveled at her face. Yanyu directed it with her feet and sent it forward. Shinza ducked, but the corner of the block caught her shoulder, ripping her clothes and the skin beneath it. An ugly black bruise began to form immediately. Shinza growled furiously, cocking her fist--

A plume of sweltering flame blasted through the doorway, missing Shinza but engulfing Yanyu, as Xia drove relentlessly forward into the building, arching upward in a loop like a roller coaster once she’d cleared it and doubling back to reign more fire. 

“Shit,” Shinza murmured. The inn began to burn around her. “Oh, fuck.” 

Xia made another loop and slowed down just enough for Shinza to throw herself onto her back. Before she knew it, they were speeding into the air as the inn was consumed by flames. In the distance, she heard police sirens.

Reeling, Shinza clung tightly to the dragon. She’d managed, just barely, to wriggle out of her own kidnapping, but she’d had to physically maim two people to do it. Her dragon had just committed murder by arson. The Organization, she knew, would be out for blood. She could already see the propaganda flyers littering the streets of towns across the globe: Avatar brutally murders her opposers. 

The visceral feel of Yanyu’s limbs snapping in her hands pulsed in her head like a sick heartbeat. The stench of Nobu’s charred flesh was embedded in her clothes - a smell she’d never be able to wash out. 

Clinging tightly to Xia’s back, she planted her palm firmly onto the slick, scarlet scales, closing her eyes and communicating with gratitude: I couldn’t have gotten out of that without you.

_______

They touched down in a town a comfortable distance away from Gaoling. Shinza parted with Xia, wearily found another inn, checked in, and immediately collapsed on the bed. Though she slept hard, she dreamed a familiar dream: black sludge oozed out in sticky tendrils from her eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. But this time, she let it flow, watching it collect itself into a neat blob and flow back into its little glass bottle.

In the morning, she felt as if she’d been hit by a Satobus. Bleary-eyed and sore, she made her way to the bathroom, noting the ugly blue bruise and the throbbing, bloody scrape on her shoulder. Her reflection stared back at her, hollow-eyed, pallid. Her freckled face was framed by a tangle of dark hair. There were no mirrors in the Eastern Air Temple; with the exception of the pond in the early, tranquil morning, she hadn’t seen herself in months. Shinza scarcely recognized the woman she saw. In her own mahogany eyes, she saw exhaustion, anger, sadness, and what Shinza could only describe as freedom. Though she smoke and char from the inn in Gaoling still clung to her skin, and though she could still hear Yanyu’s yowling and the snapping of her bones, she felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her. Carefully, she cleaned the wound on her shoulder and bathed. She’d lost her bag, she realized with a sigh, and reluctantly slipped back into the soiled and torn clothes she’d arrived in. 

Then, with a growling stomach, she went out in search of food. A block down from the inn was a noodle house; Shinza stopped in and slipped into a booth. A waiter came by to attend to her - a young man with a tapestry of tattoos covering both arms.

“Morning,” he greeted, clearly pretending not to notice the state of her clothes. She had a feeling he wasn’t one to judge. “What can I get you?”

“House special, please,” she replied. The young man bowed and returned momentarily with a steaming bowl of fresh noodles drowning in fragrant broth. Her stomach rumbled again as she unsheathed her chopsticks.

“Anything else I can get for you?” he inquired.

“Actually,” Shinza paused, studying his tattoos as surreptitiously as she could. “Will you tell me where you got your ink?”

“Pretty sick, huh?” He took a moment to admire the intricate, colorful designs on his skin. “Old man Guo hooked me up. He does it old-style with a poker, not metalbending. He’s over on Shi Street and Main.”

“Thanks,” Shinza replied, and tucked into her noodles.

_______

Shi and Main was a short walk. Guo’s place would have been all but invisible to those not looking for it, save for the wooden sign that had fallen off its little hooks on the awning and sat leaning against the outside of the storefront. Shinza entered and found a man - old, indeed - perched on a stool behind the counter, apparently asleep.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Guo?”

As if he’d been awake the whole time, he smiled brightly, toothlessly. “Oh, yes, that’s me. How may I help you?”

Shinza peered at all the artwork that lined the walls, some of it on old-style parchment scrolls, some on paper. Not a measure of wall was without a drawing or a painting. Spirits, beasts, curvaceous women, and poems in elegant calligraphy abounded.

“I’d like a tattoo,” she said. “A big one.”

With the enthusiasm of a child, Guo stepped off his stool and hobbled around the front counter. “What strikes your fancy?” he inquired in his thin, airy voice. His cloudy eyes traveled over the torn fabric of her shoulder.

“Don’t ask,” Shinza said flatly. Guo met her gaze and winked. Then she rolled up the sleeve on her opposite arm. “Are you familiar with the red dragons of the Island of the Sun Warriors?”

The process took nearly eleven hours, but meditating with Lo Sang for months on end had prepared her both for the wait and for the pain. The pain was intense and prolonged and entrancing; once Guo had sunk the inked needle into her skin for the last time, he carefully and reverently cleaned her skin and gestured for her to take a look in the full-length mirror nearby.

The tattoo consisted of strict, uniform linework and painstaking, meticulous shadow stippling in pure black ink. It started at her clavicle, where the likeness of Xia’s head breathed fire toward Shinza’s heart; the dragon’s body extended down the entire length and surface of her arm, ending with the detail of Xia’s tail wrapping delicately around her fingers, over her scars.

“It suits you,” Guo said, admiring his work. “Your spirit companion will be quite proud.”

“How do you know I know this dragon?” Shinza inquired casually. 

Guo peered up at her and offered another toothless smile. “We have long awaited your return, Avatar,” he whispered. “Go in peace.”

Guo refused to accept the last of her money, claiming no payment was greater than to be allowed to tattoo her. Shinza cast him one last inquisitive look before closing the door behind her and whistling for her dragon.

_______

@chromecutie @hetapeep41 @jaymzbush @newyorkerqueen @my-remedy-is-euphoria

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Three Hundred Thirty-Four: Street People ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina, homelessness, blindness ] [ Verse: Best Years of Your Life ] [ AO3 Link ]

They met quite by accident.

After the death of his parents and the disappearance of his brother, Sasuke was tossed from family member to family member. But wherever he went, ill luck seemed to follow.

The final straw was his aunt - his mother’s sister - facing a rather sudden death. Her son, Shisui, was already in college several states away when she took Sasuke in at the age of fifteen. For months, things seemed...normal. Manami had claimed she didn’t believe in superstitions like so many others in their family. According to her, they’d always been a magnet for misfortune.

But not long after his sixteenth birthday...Sasuke lost the last safe harbor he’d been afforded. After military service that took her leg, raising a son by herself, and mourning the death of her younger sister...Manami was killed ever so simply in a car wreck.

...she wasn’t even driving. A pedestrian struck on the sidewalk by a drunk driver. Her lacking limb meant she was too slow.

...too slow.

Sasuke found himself with nowhere else to go. Shisui couldn’t take him, and Sasuke refused his apologies.

“I’m not your responsibility. Don’t give up on your future for my sake. Don’t quite school. I’ll figure something out.”

‘Something’ turned out to be couch surfing for a while. But that was soon given up when his dropping out of highschool soured his reputation to many a parent of many a friend. 

And so...Sasuke was officially homeless.

Shisui, refusing to do nothing, had given Sasuke his car, claiming he was getting by in the big city without it. It was his only home, a place he could sleep, live, and travel in.

...but that didn’t change the fact that he was alone.

He worked odd jobs as best he could, but few wanted him around. A high school dropout, homeless, and with a bit of an attitude...he wasn’t exactly prime worker material.

Lounging in his car one night, he tried his best to think up some way to make money. He just needed enough to scrape by. Once he turned eighteen, he was sure, he could try to get his GED. Try to start putting pieces of a life back together. And Shisui would be back to help him out. But at the moment...he was stuck.

...and then it hit him.

Literally.

Rolling over in the back seat, he gave a cry and a curse as something along the rear dash tumbled off and clunk him on the head. Scowling and rubbing at the sore spot, he spotted one of the few things he’d managed to keep with him.

His guitar.

...of course…!

The next morning, he found a decent parking lot in a grocery store nearby one of his hometown’s parks. Locking the cart and jogging across a few intersections, he found a bench sat along a fountain. Sighing to steady his nerves, he placed a cap on the ground before him...and started to play.

Admittedly, he was a little rusty - he hadn’t picked the thing up since Manami died. But he knew quite a few tunes, and after a while to warm up...was actually doing pretty well. A few people stopped to listen, some even coming up to throw a few spare coins or bills in his hat, which earned them sheepish, grateful smiles.

And that’s when she showed up.

Drawn by the music, a girl his age carefully maneuvered through the crowd, stopping at the rim of people and listening. This guy was actually pretty good, she couldn’t help but think.

And then he started playing a song she knew...and it was her turn to have an idea. Cane in hand as she carefully guided herself to the edge of the fountain, Hinata sat along the lip...and began to sing along.

Startled, Sasuke had actually fumbled a few notes, looking to his unexpected companion and earning amused laughter from his little crowd. She was angled away from him, just...sitting there singing.

And honestly? She was...really good!

Gawking at her a moment longer, Sasuke eventually reverted his focus, finishing up the song and earning applause. Several people came forward and dropped money, and guilt quickly bloomed in his gut. Scooping up the hat and muttering thanks, he approached the girl, still sitting along the fountain’s edge.

“Hey, uh…” How to address this… “Look, you obviously earned some of this. You want a few bucks?”

“Oh, no - I’m fine. I...I hope I didn’t interrupt…?”

“No! Actually I think that really helped,” he admitted, spare hand itching his neck. Watching her, he realized she wasn’t looking at him, instead staring a bit over his shoulder with oddly-pale eyes.

...wait a minute…

Glancing to her side, he saw the telltale white cane. And then it all fit together.

“Are...are you blind?”

As soon as he blurted it, he went red in embarrassment. That was so rude, he did not just do that...!

“I-I mean -?”

But she just laughed. “I am. And d-don’t worry, I get that a lot. I have minimum vision - I can perceive s-some light, but...otherwise, I’m unable to see most things. Hence the cane.”

“...wow. Uh...I’ve never met someone blind before.” Thus he...really had no idea how to react. “...you...you sing really well.”

“Thank you. I took choir when I was in school.”

Sasuke’s brow furrowed. But she looked his age… “...have you already graduated?”

“No...I had to quit. I...ran away from home a few months ago. For a while I stayed with a friend, but...it didn’t, um...d-didn’t work out. So now I’m doing this solo.”

“Blind?!”

Another laugh. “Well...so far it’s actually h-helped. People tend to be pretty sympathetic. But...it’s still difficult, yes.”

Sasuke scrambled to think of something - someone like her shouldn’t be navigating all of this alone! “W-well...I have a car! If...you need someplace to crash, I’d be fine with it. I can’t just leave you by yourself. That’s not right.”

Her lips curled in a somber smile. “Taking pity on me?”

“N-no, I just -!”

“I’m just teasing you. May I...ask you your name?”

“...Sasuke. Sasuke Uchiha.”

“I’m Hinata Hyūga. Nice to meet you.”

A bit of an awkward silence bloomed.

“...y’know, I...was serious. If you need someplace to go -?”

“I’m sure you’re crowded enough, but I appreciate it.”

“No, really. I can’t just walk away. My mom would kill me. Just…” A nervous hand ran back through his hair...and then he asked, “...what if we just...did this together?”

“What?”

“Y’know...all this. And the performing. I’ve only been here an hour but there’s at least twenty bucks in here. If we, y’know...pooled our talents, I bet we’d do even better. Maybe even make enough to scrape by. And that way neither of us have to go it alone.”

Hearing he was serious, Hinata hesitated. “...you really...want to help me?”

“Hell yeah I do. I know it’d work. We can at least try it today. See what happens. Either way, I’ll buy you some dinner for your help if you decide to leave. How about it?”

Milky eyes blinked, clearly taken aback. “...all right. Let’s try it…!”

And so, they put their heads together, plotting out songs they both knew. The rest of the afternoon was spent doing slightly-shaky duets, Sasuke filling in gaps to let Hinata’s voice rest.

By the end of the day...they’d made over a hundred dollars.

“Man, this is the way to do it!” Sasuke couldn’t help but whoop. “Here, this is your half...want to go get something to eat?”

“Oh, yes please...I’m s-starving!”

One round of fast food later, they made their way back to Sasuke’s car. “Well...it’s not much, but for now, it’s home.”

“I’d be happy to see it,” Hinata lightly joked. Carefully, she felt her way into the passenger seat. “...well, I suppose I’ve broken my promise to Father about g-getting into a car with strangers.”

Sitting in the driver’s side, Sasuke just snorted.

“So you sleep in here…?”

“Yeah. That’s about the only time I’m in it, honestly. Move it when I have to, but otherwise I’m out and about trying to scrounge up money. Food. A shower. Stuff like that. I’ve managed okay so far.”

“...may I ask...w-why you’re homeless?”

“Lost my parents when I was seven. Was traded around by family, but...weird stuff kept happening. Last straw was my aunt dying in a car accident. Hit by a drunk driver.”

“Oh no…”

“My cousin’s away at college, said I could have his car. Took some finagling to get it in my name, and paying for gas and insurance makes things hard, but...so far, so okay. Shisui - my cousin - says he’ll come back and let me room with him once he finished up school. He’s going for his masters right now. Another year or so and he’ll be back.”

“Wow…”

“...what about you? You said you ran away…?”

Hinata gave a small nod. “...my father has always been strict, but...the older I got, the worse his treatment of me became. He treated my condition as a burden. I wasn’t the p-perfect daughter he wanted. A friend offered to let me stay with her, so I left...but her parents ended up saying I couldn’t stay. I’ve stayed in a shelter most of the time since. But, um...it’s not ideal.”

“Neither is living in a car.”

“No...but I guess n-none of this is easy. Being street people, I mean. I could go back to the shelter, but…” She seemed to dim. “...it can be...unpleasant.”

“...well, my offer still stands. It’s not grand, but it’s something. I bet we can make enough to get by pretty easy, between the two of us. And we wouldn’t be alone.”

Absently, Hinata slowly turned her cane in her grip, thinking. “...all right. I-I’ll stay.”

“Just until my cousin comes back. Then you can bunk with us.”

“B-but -?!”

“The way I see it, we’re friends now,” Sasuke replied airily, clearly ignoring her refusal. “And as your friend, I’ll just have to let you couch surf...once I’ve got a couch. But couches aren’t good for sleeping, so...it’ll just have to be a bed. Then you and I can catch up on studies, get a GED, and then...go from there. Until then, we give the folks a little song and dance for our dinner, huh?”

After a pause, Hinata just giggled softly. “...all right. It’s a deal.”

                                                          .oOo.

     So this is...very random. While the term 'street people' doesn't HAVE to refer to homeless people, it's the most typical example. I've had friends go through homelessness before, but know very little about it personally, so I didn't want to come off as either glorifying or ignorant. Hopefully I managed that much ^^;      Anyway, uh...not sure how to really extrapolate about this one. I likely got a lot wrong, lol - but I tried. I just like the thought of them pairing up and helping each other out, using their talents to scrape by until they can (hopefully) get a second chance. Probably won't continue this one, but it was neat, I guess!      But it's late, I'm very tired, and I better get to bed, so I'll leave it there. Thanks for reading!

[eastasianfeelings]

you make me jealous, baby: Changkyun

— based on Monsta X as jealous boyfriends 

Summary: As a Korean-English interpreter with Monsta X, you’re naturally a bit closer with Changkyun than the rest of the boys. That makes coming out to him an interesting process, to say the least.

Words: 3.1k

Warnings: jealousy, coming out as queer, making out

*

You come out to Changkyun in the most incidental way, in pieces.

It happens on Monsta X’s third American tour, the first one that you attend as their official interpreter.

“Thanks very much for the help,” says Ellie, the interviewer in Chicago, as the members and staff file out of the room. She shakes your hand with a wide smile. “This whole process is honestly so much easier with an interpreter.”

“No problem. It’s nice to speak English after so long in Korea,” you admit.

She withdraws her hand and seems to consider what to say next. “If you’re up for speaking more English,” she starts off, “there are a few local places that are part of the K-pop scene, and I always recommend them for anyone who visits the city.”

“Oh, really?” The concept of western spaces dedicated to K-pop is interesting to you.

“I was planning to go out tonight. If you’re free, would you like to come with me?” she asks.

Hm. This sounds kinda like an invitation to go out… Are you reading too much into this?

You decide to check. “Like a date?” You prop up a smile; in the case that she’s straight, you can pretend it’s a joke.

But Ellie doesn’t brush it off. Instead, she ducks her head and smiles wider. “If you want it to be.”

Hot damn. It’s been a long minute since anyone tried to ask you out. You can’t stop your responding smile, even as you say, “Thanks very much for the invitation, but I’m not really a one-night kind of person. I really appreciate it, though.”

Ellie sighs playfully. “The hot ones always say no!”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” you say with a laugh.

“I only speak the truth.”

“Jeez…”

The two of you part ways after adding each other on Instagram. At the elevators, you find Changkyun there by himself.

“Changkyun-ssi?” you question. “Were you separated from the others?”

“No, I was waiting for you,” he says, pressing the down button for you.

“Oh. You didn’t have to.”

“I actually wanted to ask about the interview today.”

“Sure, go ahead.” Recently, he’s been coming to you to brush up on his vocabulary, go over previous interviews or learn what the latest internet slang means. It seems to be his way of showing that he’s not trying to put you out of a job when he takes over translating in interviews.

“Well, it’s…” Changkyun looks down, and you’re curious about his hesitation. “It’s a question about what the interviewer said afterward.”

“Don’t worry, you can ask me anything.”

He looks up at you, but his gaze skitters away again. “I heard the word date. When she was speaking to you.”

“Ah. Right.”

As he’s gathering what to say next, the elevator arrives, and both of you step in. He waits for the doors to close before continuing.

“Is there a new way to use that word? Date? In Korean, we use it in terms of dating. But was the interviewer using it differently…?”

“Oh, no,” you reassure him. “She meant it in terms of dating. Well — ” You scrunch up your nose and squint into the distance. “I guess, more in terms of… sexual attraction?” A one-night-stand is not exactly dating. “Anyway, it was that kind of meaning, for sure.”

Changkyun’s silent. You look at him to see his slightly shocked expression, and you realize that whoops, you kinda just came out to him.

“Uh…” You raise your palms in the air, wondering if he’s gonna be okay or not. “Changkyun-ssi?”

“Noona, you — you like women?” His voice is small, scraping on the floor. “You are… lesbian?”

His brain might explode if you tell him you’re bi, so you keep it simple. “I like women, yes,” you say in your calmest tone. “It’s part of who I am.”

At that, he snaps back to life. “Oh, of course! I’m totally fine with that,” he hurriedly reassures you, even if it’s not the most convincing response. “It’s just, I never, I guess I didn’t expect that.”

“Most people in Korea don’t.” You add a smile to soften your blunt statement. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go around sharing with everyone.”

“Of course, of course,” he babbles, unable to look you in the eye.

“I just like to be in control of who I tell when.”

“Of course, definitely. I completely understand.”

“Great.”

With perfect timing, the elevator arrives at the ground floor, and Changkyun shoots out like his butt’s on fire.

Welp. There goes your budding friendship with the maknae of Monsta X.

*

You’re not really worried at all about him spilling the beans. He’s not the type, and plus from the way he acted, he probably would prefer just to pretend he’d never heard it at all.

But you can’t say it doesn’t sting a little when he starts minimizing contact with you. He takes the lead in interviews without double-checking with you, he doesn’t come to you for SNS posting advice and he doesn’t have full-on conversations with you in English anymore.

Well, it’s better than losing your job, you remind yourself after a week has passed in this way.

At the next interview in Texas, the interviewer Austin takes an interest in your position as interpreter, which is a change.

“So what made you decide to become a professional interpreter?” he asks after the Monsta X questions have wrapped up. “Did you get into it because you liked K-pop?”

“No, actually,” you reply, keeping an eye on the rest of the crew packing up to make sure you aren’t left behind. “I wanted to return to Korea because that’s where my family is originally from, and since I grew up in Canada, I speak both English and Korean fluently.”

“Ah, so you’re an immigrant,” says Austin with a little too much enthusiasm. “See, I think that’s so fascinating. You’re reconnecting with your ethnic roots and at the same time bridging cultures across the globe! It’s powerful work, you know?”

Aaand this conversation just devolved real quick. “Sure,” you say, deadpan.

“To be honest, I’ve always thought that English teachers in the East Asian countries were doing God’s work,” he continues. “The effort and devotion involved in bringing the western language to the east is just awe-inspiring to me.”

Good lord. “My work isn’t at so grand of a scale,” you say, truthfully. You interpret for a famous K-pop band so they can make sales in foreign markets, and that’s it.

“Oh no.” He reaches out to place his hands on your shoulders. “Don’t undersell yourself. I look up to people like you.”

Before you can brush him off, someone joins your conversation. “Noona? It’s time to go.”

You both look round to see Changkyun. He’s got his blank gaze trained on the interviewer, who’s caught off-guard by the sudden injection of Korean.

But your job is done, you’re not interpreting anymore. “All right, let’s go,” you say to him. “Nice to meet you,” you say in English to the interviewer with a fake smile.

“Uh, nice to meet you too. Oh, by the way, did I get your name?”

Changkyun reaches in with an arm, casually swipes away the interviewer’s hands on you and hovers his hand over the small of your back. “We’re going now,” he says bluntly in English to Austin. “Bye.”

Without even waiting for a response, he uses his whole body to herd you out of the room and into the hallway.

Once again, the two of you are waiting by yourselves for the elevators. You glance at Changkyun, who’s looking away, and sigh internally.

But then he abruptly whirls around, startling you. “Noona. In those situations — can’t you just tell the guy that you like women?”

Um, what?

“Excuse me?” you say, 100% confused.

“In situations like that one.” He waves vaguely down the hall. “Wouldn’t it end quicker if you told him you like women?”

“Wouldn’t what end, exactly?” Your eyebrows are scrunched so far up they feel like they’ll fall off.

Changkyun struggles for a bit, then bursts out, “The flirting. The way he was hitting on you.”

Eh???

Wow, he probably misunderstood that conversation by a thousand and one miles. “Hang on a minute. That man wasn’t flirting with me.”

“He was,” Changkyun insists loudly, then lowers his volume. “I heard what he said.”

“Okay,” you humour him, “but I think you misunderstood what he was saying — ”

“Noona, don’t you think you probably misunderstood?” he cuts in. “Because you’re not attracted to men?”

And there’s the other real misunderstanding. Might as well just clear it up right now.

“Changkyun-ssi,” you say as placatingly as you can, “I am attracted to men.”

He blinks. And blinks and blinks.

“And no, that man was not flirting with me. He was spouting a lot of orientalism crap, actually, and I don’t think that’s ever been considered a flirty subject — ”

“Wait a moment, noona.” He’s staring blankly at the elevator doors, processing.

“Yes?”

“You like men?”

“Yes.”

“But you also like women.”

“Yes. It’s called being bisexual, if you want to be official about it.”

He blinks some more.

Finally, when he turns to look at you, there’s a strange kind of confusion on his face. “You didn’t tell me this.”

You tilt your head. “I told you I like women.”

“But you didn’t say you also like men.”

“I mean.” You shrug, not interested in getting into bisexuality politics at this moment. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“But that’s important.”

“Why?”

His jaw works.

“Where is the elevator, anyway…” You turn and see that the button isn’t even pressed. “Oh.”

But when you reach out to press it, Changkyun grabs your hand and says, “Wait.”

You gather your patience and let your hand go limp in his grasp. “What is it, Changkyun-ssi?”

He tugs, and now the two of you are square, face-to-face. “That means…”

You wait.

“That means I can like you.”

…

What?

What?

What?

“You can like me?” you repeat dumbly.

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment.

Slowly, you begin to work your hand out of his grip. “Um.”

“No.” Changkyun tightens his hold and takes your other hand, too. “Noona.” He says the one word, and then starts flushing deeply. 

“Changkyun-ssi…” You try to pull back, but that seems to strengthen his resolve.

“Noona — I like you.”

You gape at him. Like, you physically feel your jaw loosening. What is happening?

“Um — ”

“I do. I like you,” he continues, voice getting huskier. “I like it when you teach me new English words; when we write SNS posts together; when we have really long conversations at night together...”

“Changkyun,” you try again, even though you have no idea what to say.

A scowl starts to darken his face. “But... I really don’t like it when other people hit on you.” He shoots you an accusing look. “I thought I only had to watch out women. But now I have to watch out for men, too.”

“You don’t have to — ”

“I do.” He steps into you, and instinctively you take a step back to preserve the space between your bodies. “Because — ” His face is deep red now, but he gets the words out once more: “Because I like you.”

Okay, what the fuck? What kind of noona romance drama is this? What leading actor is currently playing Im Changkyun and equipping him with all these lethals lines? And why is this hallway so conveniently devoid of people?

Your face is hot, you can’t look him in the eye, and, oh yeah, he’s still holding your hands. You tell yourself not to back up anymore, because that’s how heroines get pinned against walls and kissed.

Not that you would mind.

You wouldn’t mind? 

Since when did you come to the conclusion that you wouldn’t mind kissing Changkyun?

“Noona.” He leans in again, and you barely hold yourself steady. Quietly, he asks, “Do you like me, too?”

Your head is ducked down so far your neck is getting a crick. With effort, you manage, “I don’t… not like you.”

“You — ”

“BUT,” you say hastily, “think this through, Changkyun-ah. You’re an idol. I work with you. I’m older than you. Think about how unrealistic this is.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and when you dare to peek up, his eyes look unfocused.

“Yah. Im Changkyun?”

He meets your gaze as a dopey smile starts to spread across his face. “You called me Changkyun-ah.”

“What? Oh.” That’s what he chooses to focus on? You’d facepalm right now, except he’s still clasping your hands in his.

“Before we talk about all that…” Changkyun leans in far enough that your foreheads brush, and so do your breaths. “Can you tell me that you like me?”

When you struggle to respond, he hurries to add, “Because I know, I know I like you, noona.” Another step in, and now his legs are almost around yours. “You make me jealous, you know that? It’s so stupid. But... I want you to want me.”

His quiet openness shakes you. What are you supposed to be replying to again? Your mind is dazed and dizzied while every sense feels overstimulated: touch, sight, sound, smell… 

“Do you, noona?” he asks, oh so vulnerable.

You look into his eyes. You swallow. You can’t shake your head no.

He whispers: “Can I kiss you?”

Taste.

Slowly, you nod once.

He comes to you breathlessly. There’s heat on your mouth and then there’s him on your mouth, a dry pressure that instantly sweetens when he shifts and angles his head. You close your eyes and automatically tilt your chin into him, not even really conscious of what you’re doing, and oh. Now you feel him across every nerve in your lips. Now there’s the start of a liquid reaction that you haven’t felt for a while, a chemical rush that sweeps you up and takes you away.

Changkyun opens his mouth. The slow pull and rub of his lips against yours draws your tongue instinctively. And nothing is dry anymore, the kiss is all lush sensation and a physical response that nearly bewilders you with the intensity.

His hands have moved to your head and he pulls you to him like the two of you might meld into one if he holds you tight enough. You touch his tongue with yours, repeatedly, and think: Doomed. I’m doomed.

He breaks off the kiss first, using his grip in your hair to gently pry you away. You lift your eyelids and see him staring back at you. Beautiful.

“Noona,” he whispers.

“Uh?”

“I think you like me.”

“Mm,” you manage.

His eyes narrow as he begins to smile. “Noona.”

“What.”

He pulls you firmly into him, into the most romantic hug you’ve ever had, and for a moment you feel tears threaten to emerge.

“Tell me,” he whispers into your hair.

“What?”

“Say you like me.”

You squirm a little. “Do I... have to?”

Changkyun pulls back and looks you sternly in the eye. “Should we kiss again until you’re sure?”

“No! No, no. No need.”

“Then tell me.” He leans in to rest his forehead against yours again.

You feel like shivering at the closeness. “Can you give me time?”

“Time?”

You place a hand on his chest. “If we start a relationship, I want to do it right. It can’t just start like this because you learned I was bi and you were jealous about a male interviewer.”

“What?” Changkyun draws back in affront. “How can you say we’re ‘starting like this’? You don’t even know how long I suffered, being around you all the time, just waiting and waiting for you to pay attention to me — ”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, “no need to be dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic!” He grabs your hand again. “Remember our first day in Boston, when you asked that tour guide for directions and he asked for your number in return? I had to tell him to knock it off!”

You frown. “I’m pretty sure he only wanted my number for telemarketing purposes.”

“And what about Portland, that barista wrote his name and a heart on your cup!”

“Uh, more like he just misheard me when I told him my name — ”

With a groan, Changkyun crushes you to him again and squeezes you tight. “You’re so oblivious,” he complains.

“I really don’t think so,” you say, amused. “I think you’re maybe a bit biased.”

He sighs and draws back again. “Because I like you,” he says, so simple and straightforward that you’re blushing and smiling.

He leans in for another kiss, so you quickly apply force to his chest. “Wait. Let’s head back to the company now. Okay? Everyone’s probably wondering where we are. And I want to take care of all the politics before we go any further.”

He looks at you with disappointed puppy dog eyes, and you reach up to pat his cheek. “I’m not saying no, okay? Trust me.”

“Mmph. Okay. Fine.” He loosens his arms, and you already miss the feeling.

When you finally press the button for the elevator, the doors slide open as if the elevator was waiting the whole time. But as you’re about to walk in, a voice calls out to you.

“Hey! You’re still here?”

You pivot on the spot with dread and… yep, there’s good ol’ Austin, walking down the hall toward you.

“Hey there, I.M,” he says to Changkyun, tipping an imaginary hat. Guess that’s what they do here in Texas.

“Hi.”

Austin brushes off that single flat syllable and addresses you. “Glad I caught you. I wanted to ask if you’d like to exchange contact information. I’d love to hear about the work you’re doing with Monsta X within the K-pop industry — did I mention it’s a passion of mine?”

You open your mouth to decline politely, but Changkyun beats you to it. “Sorry, we don’t have time. We have to go, now,” he says in English, and shepherds you into the waiting elevator car.

“Thanks for the interview,” you tack on hastily, to be diplomatic.

Changkyun looks at you. Then he bends down, braces his hands against the wall on either side of you and plants his mouth firmly on yours.

The elevator doors slide closed on Austin’s shocked face.

*

[sonicrainicorn]

Made of Love, Chapter 22

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Table of Contents

Ship(s): Logicality, (platonic) Prinxiety

All Characters: Thomas, Virgil, Roman, Logan, Patton, Dr. Picani, Joan, Talyn, and Deceit

Synopsis: Humans Roman and Virgil get wrapped up in some serious magic business without meaning to. Their other companions aren’t exactly as they seem, either. Together they all must defeat a great threat for the safety of humanity.

Chapter Desc.: Thomas's worst fear is realized.

TW: Cursing, death mention, violence, blood (somewhat descriptive), existential crisis (vague)

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In the past few days, Virgil noticed something odd. Logan started wearing more long sleeves -- going so far as to wear Patton’s sweaters just so he’d have something covering his arms. Not that Virgil could say anything about it. He wore things with sleeves as often as he could since he always needed something to fidget with. Still, he decided to keep an eye on it for any further developments.

But perhaps he was overreacting. He often did that. He’d worry over things that didn’t need to be worried over. There was a chance this was one of those times. There was also a chance that it wasn’t. Nevertheless, It was better to be safe than sorry.

Other than that, everything was fine.

Well, as fine as it could be.

There was still the ever-looming threat of losing Logan forever which wasn’t fun to think about. At all. It didn’t help that he glitched out two days in a row, and it wasn’t any less terrifying than the first time. In fact, it seemed the more it happened, the scarier it got. A constant reminder that time was running out. Thankfully, Thomas had yet to witness it firsthand. No one could comprehend how traumatizing that would be for him.

Today, however, started somewhat normal. Patton and Virgil left the other three in the living room while they went outside to train. Training had become less frequent since they first started out, but it still happened. It was necessary. Practice makes perfect, as they say. Or at the very least, practice makes for a better outcome in a fight.

Speaking of fighting, Virgil couldn't help but wander over to what happened with the Theorist those couple days ago. Of how genuinely frightened he was of Patton. As if he had every reason to believe that Patton would hurt him without reason. He seemed so convinced if it. And Patton himself even admitted to being raised to fight. It all… it all sort of made sense. That was the reason he was so scarily accurate with weapons. That's why his first reaction upon hearing Arlene's name was to punch as hard as he could. It's why he didn't even hesitate to start training Roman and Virgil. Training is normal for him. Fighting is normal for him.

Did that make killing normal, too? Has Patton killed anyone? How many? Was Anxiety right? How long did he stay with his tribe before leaving? Did that affect how ingrained this was into his system?

"Look out!"

After a brief moment of alarm over hearing Roman's voice, Virgil plunged both Right and Left into the dummy's shoulder as a panic response. A bit unnecessary, and not at all what Right wanted him to do, but it got the job done. The dummy crumpled into a pile of sticks.

“You know, if you’re going to fight something you should probably focus on that rather than what’s going on in your head,” Patton mentioned from the log he sat at. A teasing smirk played at his lips. “Maybe you should take a break.”

Virgil ignored the heat rising up his face and tapped the hilts of his daggers together. They turned back into pens. He took a seat on the log as Patton stood up from it. “And what are you planning to do?”

“Well, everyone needs practice.” Beside his foot started to sprout thick, interweaving branches. They grew similarly to how someone might knit a scarf, except it started to curve. Patton pulled it out and a thin vine connected the two ends, creating a complete bow. After it, something resembling a sapling sprouted up with its needles forming along three sides to create the fletchings of an arrow.

Virgil decided not to comment on that. He watched Patton wander over to the opposite side of the dummies and take aim with his bow. He pulled back the makeshift string and let the arrow go. And missed -- but just barely. It scraped along the side of the dummy’s head and landed somewhere behind it.

“Whoops.” Patton grinned sheepishly. “This thing’s a little janky.” He sprouted another arrow from the ground. His movements were automatic, almost mechanical, as he plucked the arrow out and nocked it -- that is to say, he put the arrow to the string. He drew it back, aimed, and let it go. It hit the dummy’s head, causing it to crumble into a pile.

“So how long have you known how to use a bow and arrow?” Virgil watched another arrow hit the second dummy with rather remarkable grace. Like someone who had done this same action a dozen times over.

“A few hundred years.” The dummies built themselves back up. “Just about my whole life, really. Why?” Patton flicked his finger side to side in the direction of the dummies. They started to walk in opposite directions like cartoon characters on patrol.

Virgil followed one of the dummy’s steps with his eyes. “Wondering how much practice you actually need.” It fell to pieces.

A new arrow grew from the ground. “I mean, it’s good to brush off old skills every once in a while.” Patton nocked it and proceeded to aim at his next target.

“Even if those skills have been with you your whole life?”

“Yes, even then.” He hit it.

Virgil continued to watch Patton with increasing fascination. Every time both dummies went down, he had them start at a faster speed after they built themselves up again. He never missed. He hit the dummies' heads every time. A near-constant stream of arrows sprouted from the ground whenever he plucked one. Well, if someone did one thing for hundreds of years, they better be pretty good at it. Virgil assumed skills like this were only seen in books and movies.

It only made Virgil more curious. He wanted to learn more about Patton's heritage -- about the Machai elves. Were they as feared as the Theorist made them out to be? Why were they so focused on fighting? But Patton didn't want to talk about that. He made it very clear he wasn't interested in discussing his history.

There had to be some other way to do it -- some way to ease him into the topic. Because Virgil wouldn't be able to get any damn rest until he had at least some idea of who Patton was.

After hitting yet another target, Patton paused to push his hair out of his face. The wind picked up and caused the already rowdy curls to disobey any type of practicality. He had to spit out the few strands that made it into his mouth.

"Here. Looks like you need this." Virgil slipped off the hair tie on his wrist and offered it to Patton.

He grinned. "Thanks, Virgil." He set the bow down to walk over to him.

Then a lightbulb illuminated over Virgil's head.

As Patton gathered up all his hair, Virgil tried to figure out the best way to go about his question. It would sort of seem out of the blue, there was nothing he could do about that, but he figured he could use it as a leeway. "Hey, um, Patton. I have a bit of a question."

"What is it?" He pulled his hair through the tie.

"Do you know anything about soulmates?"

He cracked a small smile. "I know a lot about soulmates. Why? What's up?" He placed his hands on his hips. His hair was successfully pulled back into a little ponytail, though a few rebel strands decided to go their own way.

Shit. He wasn't prepared for this yet. "Oh -- uh -- just, like, what are they?"

"Well, they can be a lot of things. It depends on who you ask." He picked his bow back up. "If you want a textbook definition, they’re two people with a very close connection.”

“Is there a way you would define it?” Virgil put his hands in his hoodie pockets and put his back against the tree.

The dummies reformed. “Hmm. I guess I would say that soulmates are kinda like best friends. They’ll always be there for you and you’d understand each other better than anyone else.” He nocked another arrow. “I was taught that soulmates are sort of like stars. They’re bright and wonderful, but intense. They burn. And then they go out. Not every soulmate relationship sticks until the end. Sometimes they burn too much to really work out.”

“You sound so sure that they’re real.”

“There’s nothing saying that they’re not.” Patton sent him another grin. “It’s even possible for soulmates to be products of past lives. The Machai liked to believe that’s how soulmates are formed, anyway. Two people meet, they had a deep connection, their souls try to find each other again after they’re reincarnated.” He plucked another arrow.

Reincarnation. That was something Virgil didn’t want to think much about. It made sense, didn’t it? People kept seeing something in him -- someone that wasn’t him. Not anymore, anyway. It made sense that reincarnation would play a role. But it was terrifying. He existed before -- Roman existed before. They didn’t have any recollection of it. Did that change anything about them? Were they meant to remember more?

Ah, shit. There was that existential dread again. A puzzle piece from the wrong puzzle thrown into the mix. He had a perfectly fine puzzle before that extra piece forced its way in. Now nothing was going to fit right until he found out where it went.

Fuck.

Change the subject. “Would you consider yourself to be Logan’s soulmate?”

Patton stopped mid-action. He stayed frozen until slipping his fingers away from the string, continuing with the motion of shooting. He missed. “I’d say we’re something else entirely.”

Virgil stared at the arrow embedded in the nearby tree. “What would that be?”

He lowered the bow and looked up at the treetops. For a moment, Virgil was afraid he somehow asked the wrong question, until he saw a bright smile creep along Patton’s face. “It’s not something with a name, I don’t think. It’s different. It’s more like we rewrote our own stories to be how we wanted them. Sort of threw destiny off track a bit."

That was enough attempting to pry for today.

When they went back inside, the other three were still in the living room. Thomas was the first to notice their return. He gasped and leaped to his feet, running over to them like an energetic puppy. Paint was smeared along his cheeks and many splatters were over his clothes.

"Guys, look what we did." He threw his arms out to the canvas on the floor. It was a serene portrait of a tree branch with a bird resting on it. In the back was a lush field of green, scattered with bits of orange flowers. "Logan sketched out one of Roman's pictures and then we painted it. What do you think?"

Patton smiled. "It looks great." He leaned over the back of the armchair to get a better look at it without getting in the way. Roman and Logan were still working on it.

"It's not finished yet." Thomas beamed at Virgil.

"Looks pretty good to me." He returned the smile at a lower watt intensity.

"Well it has to be perfect," Roman called from the floor. He sat back from the painting. He was the least covered in paint out of the three of them. It only seemed to be on his hands.

"He's been insisting that since we started, even though we've said it doesn't need to be." Logan sat back as well. There were a few specific smears of paint on his face and even some in his bangs. He lifted his eyes from the canvas and they froze at Patton. "Your hair is up."

"Huh? Oh, yeah." He put a hand to his hair and gave a nervous smile. "Do you not like it?"

"I never said that. I think you look rather nice. It makes it easier to see all the constellations on your face."

Patton placed a hand on his cheek, his smile switching to be more reserved.

"Plus, you get to see your cute little elf ears," Thomas added.

Virgil felt heat rise to his cheeks. He could see Roman's turn pink.

"Thomas!" Patton covered his ears.

"I agree with that," Logan said.

Virgil's face got warmer.

Sometime around noon, they decided to walk down into town for lunch. They hadn’t gone out for food in a while and it seemed like a perfect time to do it. Well, perfect as a relative term. No one dropped dead or anything like that. So that was the standard for perfect nowadays, which was a bit upsetting for various reasons. But whatever.

As they ate, they ended up falling into a discussion about one of the biggest things they’ve ever gotten in trouble for. Patton and Logan elected not to participate, and Virgil was reluctant to admit anything. Roman, on the other hand, told them about the time he and one of his brothers put a wad of gum in their older sister’s hair and no one could get it out. She had to cut it super short and they ended up feeling bad about it. The days they were meant to be grounded for got canceled out by their sister shaving part of their heads and forcing them to get haircuts as well.

“What were you even expecting to happen?” Virgil gave Roman the usual ‘you’re-a-dumb-idiot’ look (but in a rare addition of amusement) as he messed around with the straw of his drink.

Roman shrugged. “I don’t know, dude. We were dumb and he’s a bad influence, but we learned not to mess with her after that. Especially after she started taking taekwondo lessons.” He reached into the large fry pile that they made. “Don’t act like you’ve never done anything dumb like that before.”

“Of course not. I’m an only child.” He hid his smirk by taking a sip of his drink.

Roman tossed a fry at him. “Whatever. You’ve had to have done something stupid in your childhood.”

“I somehow doubt that Virgil has ever done anything along your lines of idiocy,” Logan commented.

“Okay, rude.”

“He’s got a point, though,” Virgil said.

“You two don’t need to pick on Roman all the time,” Patton interjected. “Give him a break.”

Roman stuck his tongue out at Virgil. “Yeah! Thanks, Dad.”

Patton grinned while Logan rolled his eyes. Virgil was forced to stick his tongue out in retaliation.

“Back on the subject,” Thomas snuck into the conversation, “is there really nothing you’ve ever done that’s gotten you into big trouble?”

Virgil went back to messing with the straw. “I don’t know if I’m willing to confess my childhood shenanigans to you guys.”

“Oh, come on. They can’t be as bad as that time I got arrested.” He snatched up a fry as if the most Earth-shattering thing didn’t just come out of his mouth.

Roman inhaled a piece of food and started choking. Virgil’s jaw dropped. What the actual fuck.

“You’ve been arrested before?” Virgil didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Part of him wanted to scream instead.

Thomas stopped and grinned sheepishly. “Just once. I used to be a graffiti artist in the seventies and I got caught writing on something I shouldn’t have. The charges were dropped, though.”

Roman downed the rest of his soda. “Oh my God.” He coughed. “I can’t believe you’ve been arrested. You’re just a little baby. How could that happen to you?”

He shrugged. “Accident.”

Patton and Logan didn't look very amused.

After continuing to freak out over Thomas being arrested by an actual police officer before, they finished up so they could get back home. But neither Roman or Virgil could get over it. Thomas Sanders -- the same Thomas that cries during emotional movies and the same one that tried to avoid cursing -- was arrested for committing a crime. A minor misdemeanor really, but that didn’t change the disbelief. Roman was right. Thomas was a little baby. It wasn’t comprehensible for him to be doing any kind of illegal activity.

They freaked the fuck out even more when he mentioned, at the time, he could have passed as a twelve-year-old. In hindsight, he probably should have kept that to himself. He wasn’t ever going to hear the end of it.

By the time they were almost home, Roman and Virgil calmed down about it at least a little bit. Patton decided to change the subject before one or both of them had an aneurysm.

The street that led back home was empty once they got there. It wasn’t ever busy on the weekends since the majority of the buildings lining it were businesses or other buildings of that nature. So it was quiet and there wasn’t anyone to give them a second glance. It was because of this, though, that Virgil noticed Thomas coming to a complete stop. When people were around, he tried to avoid their attention and move as fast as possible to where he needed to be. Without them, he was able to look around more.

He stopped as well and turned toward Thomas. He was looking up at an office building. Virgil followed his gaze, but couldn’t see anything of note. “You okay, kid?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I -- I just --” He glanced at the group before returning his eyes up to the building. “I just thought I saw… something.” He frowned. “Hold on.” He took off before anyone could say anything about it.

“Thomas,” Patton cried out in alarm.

Virgil was the first to follow after him, glancing vaguely in each direction of the street before running across. Thomas already made it inside by the time he got to the door. He could see him turn up the stairs. Not wanting to waste any time, he tugged on the door. But it didn't budge. “What the hell?” He pulled it again, but it didn’t swing open as it had for Thomas.

“It’s locked?” Roman ran up to him. He stared at the door in confusion. He pulled at the second one beside it, then pushed, but it didn’t move either way.

“What do you mean it’s locked?” Patton hovered nervously at Virgil’s side. “How is it locked?”

“Maybe he locked it?”

“Wha -- you can’t lock a door like this without a key.” Virgil shook the handle for emphasis. There wasn’t any way to lock it like a normal house door. It was an entrance to an office building -- it needed a key to be locked.

Roman threw his hands up. “So then how the hell did he get in if it was already locked?”

Patton and Logan shared a worried glance. “We have to get in,” Logan said.

“How?” Roman waved his arms in the direction of the doors. “We have no way of opening these.”

“I’ll just --” He reached for the door, only to yank his hand back -- “I can’t… I can’t do anything.” He looked down at his hands, then back up at the group. “Patton.” He fumbled over his words, struggling to push out a complete sentence, before giving up and pointing at the door. “Open it.”

Patton grimaced, inching forward to be in front. “Oh, I hope I don’t break anything too much.” He placed his hand between the two doors. Soon, weeds began to break through the crack. They pushed out and out until both doors popped open. He pulled one open all the way and rushed inside, followed by Logan.

“You can wait for us at least,” Roman called after them.

“Taking off just runs in the family.” Virgil grabbed Roman’s wrist and tugged him through the door.

They tried to keep up with Logan and Patton, but that proved a much more difficult task than anticipated. It was almost unfair how fast they were compared to Roman and Virgil. Though, if she perceives that her cub is in danger, it isn’t as if momma bear will take her time.

It wasn’t until they reached the third floor did they find Thomas. He stood in a partially vacant room with a large window that faced the street. It appeared as if the contents of the room were in the process of being taken elsewhere. Boxes were piled up in various corners.

"Thomas," Patton and Logan exclaimed at the same time. They hurried over to him, inspecting to see if he was okay.

"What made you run away like that?" Patton asked. He put his hands on Thomas’s shoulders.

Thomas took his eyes off the window and onto the very concerned faces of Patton and Logan. "I just thought I saw something."

"So you run away?" Logan crossed his arms

"What if something happened to you?"

Virgil and Roman idled in the doorway. If anyone has ever had a moment where you're at a friend's house, and then their parent starts lecturing them, then you know that uncertain and awkward feeling. It was an uncertain and awkward feeling that Virgil and Roman were being exposed to. They weren't quite sure if they should speak up, or walk away, or do anything. So they ended up keeping their mouths shut and pretended to focus on other things.

Thomas sighed. "I'm sorry."

"It's our job to keep you safe," Patton continued. "We can't keep you safe if you wander around without letting us know."

“I know.”

Patton gave a vague semblance of a smile and dropped his hands. “Let’s go home, alright?”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Logan added.

They walked back out to the open office floor. There were a lot of things put in boxes out here as well. Perhaps this particular floor was moving elsewhere. No matter, that wasn’t the main focus of this trip. Patton continued to make worried comments toward Thomas, asking if he was sure he was fine, but Thomas didn’t make very convincing answers. He mostly brushed it all off.

Once they made it back down to the second floor, everyone stopped dead when they heard a door creak open. They held their breath, seeing the door pulled into another room. Virgil expected a businessman, or otherwise threatening authority figure, but who stepped out did not meet his expectations. It was a rather soft-looking woman. A woman of average height with short brown hair -- who wasn’t even wearing a suit or dressed formally at all. She closed the door and looked up, peaceful expression turning surprised.

“Oh, well, wasn’t expecting this,” she said with a small smile.

Virgil wasn’t sure if that phrase was supposed to be significant in any way. He hadn’t ever seen this woman before. At least, he didn’t think so. And by the looks of it, Roman hadn’t either. Patton and Logan, on the other hand, seemed as if they just saw a ghost. Thomas stood there with wide eyes. No one said anything. No one moved.

“M-Mom?” With that simple word, Thomas’s eyes began to water.

The woman looked at him and her smile widened.

“Mom.” Thomas booked it over to her before Patton or Logan could stop him. He crashed into her, wrapping his arms around her, and crying. “Mama.”

Virgil felt as if the air had been pulled from his lungs. Something… something wasn’t right. A little voice screamed at him to get Thomas away from her. But the voice wasn’t his. It didn’t sound familiar. His uneasiness increased tenfold when he saw Logan and Patton. They were still horrified. Patton had his hands covering his mouth. He must have been doing a very good job holding in his empath magic because there were tears in his eyes but Virgil didn't feel a single one.

“Thomas,” Logan started, voice serious and steady. “You need to get back here. Right now."

"What?" Thomas pulled back, wiping his eyes. "But it's my mom. You know how long it's been since the last time I saw her."

"Yes, but that's not --" His voice cracked. Virgil could see the tears forming in his eyes before he shut them.

"Don't listen to him, baby," she said. Her voice was soothing. Like any mother who tries to calm down her child. "He doesn't know what he's talking about."

Logan took a deep breath before attempting to speak again. "Thomas," he still sounded serious, but much more hollow than before, "look at her. Really look at her." He opened his eyes. "That's the last thing we ever saw her in."

Thomas took a step back from her to do as he was instructed. She wasn't wearing anything modern. Or even something that was intended to be worn outside of the house. She had on a silk robe decorated in flowers with a soft pink nightgown underneath. Even her feet were bare.

She wasn't real.

"But…" Thomas took another step back. "How -- why --?" He looked so torn.

"It's alright, Thomas." She took a step toward him. "I'm right here." She opened her arms for a welcoming hug.

And Thomas hesitated.

"Thomas," Patton begged. "Please."

Virgil was almost convinced Thomas wouldn’t listen. This was his mom. Why wouldn’t he think to turn to her first? But he didn’t. He took another step away from her. Fresh tears welled in his eyes as he continued to back away.

The woman frowned. “Thomas.” She dropped her arms. “I’m your mother.”

“I…” He stopped. “M-my --”

“She’s not,” Logan insisted as he stepped forward. “Not anymore.”

“Thomas, you have to believe us.” Patton joined Logan and took his hand. “She really isn’t your mom.”

The woman’s frown deepened as she looked at them. “As if you two would know anything about that. Neither of you had much of an example of what a mother should be.”

Patton's expression shifted to hurt while Logan appeared ready to punch her in the nose. Thomas stared at her in shock.

"Come on, Thomas, I think you've spent enough time with them." She regained her sweet smile and extended a hand toward him.

He didn't take it. He put more distance between them. "I've spent most of my life with them. I'm not just gonna leave."

She looked genuinely surprised by this. "You would rather stay?"

"I can't imagine doing anything else."

Confusion flicked across her face before steadying into something else -- an almost complete 180 of her original sweet persona. More than a furious mother, she seemed downright pissed off. “Thomas, I am trying to make this easier for you. Come here right now.”

“No.”

That didn’t appear to be the right thing to say. “What?”

“I, I said no. I’m not going with you.”

Virgil put his hands in his pockets, curling his fingers around the pens inside. He noticed Roman fidgeting with his bracelet.

“Fine. We’re going to have to do this the hard way.” She straightened out her robe and reached out for him.

Then a few things happened at once. Roman and Virgil summoned their weapons. A bright flash of light erupted before them, and a figure moved swiftly to be in front of Thomas. He seized the woman’s wrist.

“Picani,” Thomas exclaimed.

Or at least… it almost was. He didn’t quite look like himself; appearing more mashed together than usual. Not even his height was the same. His skin was darker. His hair was also darker and a bit curlier. The most drastic difference, however, was his eyes. One was a scalding bright blue, and the other was a dark sky.

“Oh, Cali, I was wondering if you were going to join us.” She yanked her arm back. Her eyes scanned him up and down. “You seem a bit broken though. Are you sure you can hold it together?”

“We can hold it just fine,” he said, Patton’s and Logan’s voices layering over one another.

The corner of her mouth turned up. “Sure sounds like it.”

He scowled. “Thomas, go over to Roman and Virgil.”

Thomas didn’t hesitate to do so.

The woman watched him go with an unreadable expression. Virgil couldn't tell if she was angry or not. "I never figured my own son would stop listening to me one day. After everything I ever did to keep you safe."

"You're not her."

"I was," she snapped, turning her head back to glare at Picani. "I was alive once. I used to be Brigida Sanders -- you used to know me. I'm the reason you're even here at all." She threw a punch at him, only missing because Picani deflected her hand. That didn't appear to slow her down at all.

Roman pulled Thomas back so there would be a greater distance between them and the fight. Virgil followed after.

"Think about it, Cal." She twisted his arm back and pressed her forearm across his shoulders. "What would have happened if Booker and I never found you? Do you think you would have made it very far?" She pushed down on him. "Would you have even accepted yourself?"

Picani's form flickered, allowing him to break out of her hold. "You are not the only reason we are here today."

"I beg to differ." She went at him again, though this time Picani wasn't as capable of blocking her. "I gave you everything. I made sure to protect you. I never let anyone put you down for being who you are. And yet you won't even let me have my son back." With every sentence, her blows hit harder.

Picani stepped away. He put his hands on his knees and breathed in and out in quick successions as if experiencing an intense exercise for the first time. “We promised to protect him.”

“And look what a great job you’ve done,” she retorted, sarcasm dripping from every word as she kicked him back.

In a quick flash of light, Logan and Patton fell to the floor.

“I gave him to you so he’d be safe from those who wanted to hurt him, but now he’s right on Altair’s radar.” She stood in front of them with a scowl. “What kind of protection is that?”

“We tried.” Patton struggled to sit up.

“A lot of good that did.” Her eyes lifted to Thomas. “It’s time for you to join everyone else.”

Thomas tensed. Roman and Virgil stood in front of him protectively. But she didn’t even get to take a step. A tip of a sword appeared in front of her face, halting her progress. Her eyes widened in shock. Logan rose to his feet. He adjusted the sword so it was properly in his hands, but kept it trained on Brigida.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” She raised a brow.

“Have to get rid of you somehow,” he responded.

“I suppose so.” She reached into her pockets and pulled out two matching daggers. The blades and handles were white. The grips had an intricate twisted design laced with gold leading up to the pommels. She put them together and they morphed into one, changing shape and size into a sword. “But I think we both know how this is going to end.”

Logan seemed less confident now -- not that he had time to feel that for long. Brigida swung at him.

As Brigida pushed forward, Virgil made a bee-line to Patton with Roman and Thomas following close behind.

“Are you okay?” Virgil kneeled in front of him.

“What? Y-yeah, yeah I’m fine.” He kept his eyes trained on Brigida and Logan. “I have to --” he stopped abruptly, patting his pockets with widened eyes. “I don’t have a weapon.” Panicked, he placed his hand on the carpet. “We’re on the second floor.” He drew his hand back, eyes briefly scanning over Roman and Virgil’s weapons, and looked around. “Dirt. I need dirt. A potted plant -- something.” He stood up.

“What about this one?” Roman picked up a succulent resting on a nearby desk.

Patton's eyes fluttered over it. “Fake.”

Roman and Thomas looked at it. In all fairness, it seemed pretty real, but perhaps the elf who could control plants knew what he was talking about. Roman tossed it back on the desk.

“You’re doing great, honey,” Patton called out with a nervous smile.

“Some help would be nice,” Logan shot back. He ducked out of the way of an oncoming sword.

“I’m working on it.” He glanced around the room, shifting from foot to foot. “I need to find a real plant.” He looked at Virgil and Roman. “Stay here with Thomas. I’ll be back as fast as I can.” He took off.

“Shouldn’t one of us help Logan?” Virgil cried out after him.

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Virgil stood up. “He can’t be serious,” he deadpanned.

“Think about it,” Thomas started in a whisper. “You’ve only known how to fight for two months. My mom’s been able to fight for a couple centuries. I don’t even think Logan would be able to beat her on his own.”

“Isn’t that a good reason to try?” Virgil tightened his grip on his daggers. As he gazed at the two fighting, Right made quiet suggestions on how to best assist Logan.

“I’m kinda with Thomas on this one, Virge,” Roman said. “We have almost no experience -- especially compared to her. How much help can we possibly be?”

That was a solid point. They wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight against her. But still. Virgil couldn’t help but feel he had to do something. As if it was his responsibility to fix this somehow. There was something deep inside of him that insisted he needed to get rid of her. He had to protect everyone.

Logan hit the ground. His sword was on far from his reach. Brigida stood over him and pulled apart the hilt of her sword, forcing it to return to her hands as two daggers. She adjusted one of them to be in a proper grip. "Good effort, kiddo.”

Virgil reacted on pure instinct. He heard Thomas and Roman's muffled voices, but they didn't impede his progress. He had to do this. Almost as if by muscle memory, he hit his forearm against Brigida’s and pushed it down and around, using her momentum to turn her body away. Once her back was toward him, he shoved her as hard as he could. After it happened, he realized he had an open opportunity to strike, yet he didn’t utilize it. He just wanted to get her far away.

“How the hell did you do that?” Logan’s voice almost didn't register to Virgil's ears.

“I have no idea.” Virgil turned to him.

“Well, we’re not out of it yet.” He got up and grabbed his sword.

The hairs on the back of Virgil’s neck stood on end. He spun around in time to see Brigida slash down with her dagger. He narrowly missed the blade by sidestepping out of the way. He tried to ignore how close she was to almost stabbing him. It was easy to do once he had to block another one of her attacks.

"Oh, those are cute," she commented, eyeing up his daggers. "I'll have to take them off you later." She used their interlocked daggers to her advantage. She pulled on one of them and kicked his leg up, sending him tumbling down.

Much to his chagrin, he realized this was a similar move he had seen before. When Logan threw Roman to the ground.

"Move!" Roman's voice hissed at him.

No need to tell Virgil twice. He rolled in time for Brigida to slam her dagger down. Instead of hitting Virgil, thank God, it stuck into the ground.

She lowered herself enough to whisper, "Stand down, kid." She almost sounded genuine. Then she stood up to deal with Logan.

Like hell would Virgil listen to her. If anything he was being a rather good distraction. He needed to buy Patton more time. With a new goal in mind, he tried to stand up -- except he couldn't get anywhere. He fell back to the floor. It didn't take him long to notice that Brigida's dagger was stabbed through his hoodie pocket. Fuck. He should have zipped it up. He let go of Left so he could pull it out, but when he tugged on it it wouldn't budge. "Jesus, lady," he grumbled to himself. How the hell did she manage this?

"Virgil," Thomas called out. He was hiding behind Roman, eyes apprehensively glancing between his mom and Logan fighting, and the predicament Virgil found himself in. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He tugged on it again. This time he managed to move it, but not very much. He had no clue how she stabbed the floor this hard.

“Do you need any help? Or do you have any other dumb stunts to aid you?” Roman raised a brow in his usual ‘you’re-an-idiot-and-I’m-right’ expression.

Virgil glared at him. “I got it.” Sort of. Much to his pain, he realized the easiest option would be to tear his hoodie loose, which would leave a rather unfortunate hole. If he tried to continue pulling out the dagger he’d just be wasting more time. In the end, he decided ruining his favorite hoodie was a small price to pay.

He took each side of the pocket and yanked it up. It got caught on the hilt the first time. But the second time the fabric gave way. He couldn’t lie; that hurt his soul a bit.

“Virgil!”

Virgil didn’t have any time to react. In a split second, he saw Roman and Thomas disappear and then he fell. He landed flat on his back with enough force to knock the wind out of him. The clang of metal was loud and clear in his ears as Right slipped out of his hand. He tried to pick himself up, but he didn’t quite get there. Instead, he rolled to his side, which was at least halfway there and deserved some form of compensation in his opinion. Getting the air knocked out of you was tough shit. Give him some credit.

All of that seemed rather irrelevant, however, when he saw Brigida’s dagger fall over the edge. “What the hell?” His chest constricted as the words passed his lips, but he ignored it. He pushed himself to his feet and immediately wanted to sit back down.

He was on a rather high catwalk. More confusing was that he seemed to be in a theatre. All the seats below him were empty and the bare minimum of lights was on. He held onto the bars to calm his vertigo, but it didn’t help that his hands were slick from sweat. Luckily, part of his attention got dragged somewhere else. Voices. Brigida and Logan were on the stage below.

“You know,” her voice carried up to the catwalk with traces of annoyance. “I don’t even have to take you back to Altair at all. I just have to kill you.”

Logan took a defensive position. “Do it, then.”

“Sure thing.”

No.

No, no, no, no. She would absolutely be able to do that. No. That couldn’t happen. Virgil needed to get down there as fast as possible. Patton would kill him if he stood back and watched. Not that he even entertained the idea, anyway. He located the exit of the catwalk and scooped up his daggers, scurrying off to the door.

He took the stairs down as fast as was safely possible which resulted in him almost running face-first into the door when he reached the bottom. He pushed it open and raced out. He was in one of the wings. None of the main lights were on, but he could see props and equipment silhouetted by the dim blue light. There was a chance he’d trip over something with the rather large mess this posed. Who the hell was performing here? Didn’t they care about safety?

As Virgil navigated his way to an opening, he glanced through the legs to see onstage. With one dagger it seemed as if Brigida struggled to fight back. Not even someone like her would have a good time going up against a sword with such a close-encounter weapon. This was good. By the time Virgil made it onstage, Logan already had Brigida on the ground. Disarmed and with nowhere to go.

He held the tip of his sword to her throat.

Brigida stared at it before bringing her eyes up to Logan. Her expression morphed to be one of hurt. Both frightened and betrayed at the same time. “C’mon, L,” she said, voice wavering. “You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?”

Logan hesitated. Recognition and uncertainty crossed his features. She struck a nerve.

Virgil didn’t get to register what Right had whispered to him before it happened. And he became frozen.

Brigida kicked Logan back, knocking the sword out of his hand. As he stumbled, she picked it up. All sound was caught in Virgil’s throat as she ran it through Logan. Her face showed no remorse -- or even a lack of expression as other Figments -- instead, she wore a sly smirk. She was proud to have lowered Logan’s defenses so easily. She felt something.

She drew the sword back out. Logan took a step back, shaky hands moving to cover his gaping wound. “You were always the weak one.” She shoved him down. “Always too afraid to use your full potential.” He tried to get away, but she kept him down. “Always needing someone to say you’re doing it right. Because mommy and daddy didn’t love you enough. You’re nothing but flaws, Logan. After all this time, that's the one thing you haven't changed.”

“Throw me!” Left all but screamed at Virgil in Patton’s voice.

Brigida lifted the sword.

Like a gear in clockwork, Virgil raised the dagger and threw it. After it left his fingers, a crippling fear hit him at once. He hadn’t thrown his daggers much before. He could miss. He could piss her off and get Logan killed. Why didn’t he think before he threw?

The dagger struck between her eyes. She looked straight at Virgil in surprise. Black ooze leaked out, sliding down over her mouth, then she was gone. Both the dagger and sword fell from their positions. Everything around them fizzled out of existence; they were on the first floor of the office building again.

Virgil stood there in shock. It took Right yelling at him to get him to move. He ran toward Logan and kneeled at his side.

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “Are you alright? No, God.” He placed his hands over the wound, earning a wince from Logan. “I, uh, what do I do?” He tried to not start panicking, but that proved easier said than done. Blood was seeping in between his fingers. Real blood. Actual blood. This wasn’t some horrible vision or a what-if scenario. This was happening right here and he wasn’t prepared for it.

“P-Patton,” Logan choked out.

Virgil furrowed his brows. “Patton?” Then it sunk in. “Patton. Heal. H-he can heal.” He shot up from the ground and ran up the stairs.

The three stood around having an argument that no doubt was seeded in worry.

“Patton.”

They stopped and looked in the direction of Virgil's voice.

Virgil couldn’t think of any words. He held out his hands, both covered in blood. He saw Patton’s eyes scan every inch of him. “Logan.”

Patton’s eyes shot up to Virgil’s face as if needing to see validity. Seeming to find it, he wasted no time in bolting down the stairs.

The others followed after.

All of Patton's English flew out the window when he reached the first floor. Logan winced as his hands were removed and replaced by Patton’s. He whispered calming foreign words as a soft blue glow clashed with the jarring red. Logan kept his eyes screwed shut throughout the whole thing.

Soon, Patton sighed in relief and removed his hands. No one commented on the blood that stained them. “How you feeling?”

Logan groaned and sat up. “Sore.” His hand hovered over the previously open wound. The only evidence that it ever happened was the tear in his shirt and the blood. “You’d think it would be easier the second time.”

“Wait, what?” Roman cried.

Patton chuckled. “Don’t worry about that.” He helped Logan to his feet.

“Are you sure he’s alright?” Virgil gazed at Logan worriedly. “Don’t people who lose blood need transfusions or something?”

“Transfusions only occur if hemoglobin levels are seven or eight grams per deciliter. And he hasn’t passed out so I’d say that’s a pretty good indicator that he’ll live without one.”

Virgil and Roman stared at Patton. Then turned their eyes to Logan.

He seemed to be trying to keep himself steady until he noticed the eyes on him. He looked at them in confusion. “What are you staring at me for? He’s right.”

“Besides,” Patton continued. “We don’t technically exist. The only identification we have is Picani’s."

“Can we just go home now?” Thomas cut in.

Patton stared at him for a moment. "Oh, of course."

They had to be careful to not let anyone else see the blood on their way out.

When they got back, Thomas wasted no time going up the stairs to his room. He didn't say a word. Just left the others behind as soon as the opportunity came up. Patton and Logan watched him go and sighed when his door slammed closed. That didn't seem like a good sign.

"Does this seem like a Picani problem?" Patton turned to Logan.

"It most certainly does. But if we try fusing again I think that might actually kill me so let's avoid that." He placed a hand where Brigida stabbed him.

Roman frowned as he gazed up the stairs. "We could always send Virgil up there."

"What?" Virgil gave him an incredulous look.

Roman returned the look as if it was obvious. "You're the next best thing. He likes you. You help him with so many things and he tells you everything. You'll probably deal with this better than all of us."

"I think he's right," Patton agreed.

Oh great. Now he couldn't weasel out of it. "Let me clean the blood off first," he sighed.

After scrubbing his hands, he headed up the stairs. The little blackboard on Thomas's door had the same message it did for the past two months. No one changed it or attempted to erase it all the way. Virgil knocked underneath it. "Hey, kid, it's me. If you don't want me coming in say something now or else I'm going to take it as an invitation." He waited but didn't get anything. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

He couldn’t see Thomas at first. His initial thought was that he somehow got out, but his reasoning skills set in. There was a scrunched up pile of blankets on the bed. He had to be under there.

He sat down at the edge of the bed. The bundle of blankets didn’t move. “You doing okay?” He placed his hands in his lap.

There came a muffled response of, “Peachy.” From the one word alone, Virgil could tell something wasn’t quite right. It didn’t sound like him. A quiet sniffle soon told him why.

How would he approach this? “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I want Picani.”

Oh, sweet Jesus. He sounded like a heartbroken little kid. Virgil couldn’t handle this right now. “He’d come up here if he could, but I don’t think he’d stick around very long. I’m afraid you only have me. If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to.”

He let out a broken sound. “I… I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to believe that she -- that everyone -- that they’re… they’re…” He shattered into pieces. Even through the fabric, his sobbing was clear and audible. “I-I just wanted them to be fine. I wanted it so bad, but it was dumb and naive to keep thinking that way. And it hurts. I ignored everything telling me the truth because I didn’t wanna stop believing that they were out there somewhere. But they’re not. Of course they weren’t. I knew that the moment I met you, but it took me seeing my mom as a Figment to get me to believe it.”

“The moment you met me?” Something squirmed inside Virgil’s chest. His hands turned clammy.

“You have her eyes.”

Her eyes.

“You’re a lot like her. You have that same light in your eyes."

“Because they’ll see the same thing I did.”

“I guess history repeats itself, after all.”

He… he used to be Brigida.

“I-I just wanna be alone right now.” Thomas further pulled his blankets around himself. His next words came out even more muffled than before, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Virgil obeyed without another word. His movements didn’t feel quite like his own as he walked toward the door. Like he had control but someone else was doing the action. Maybe it had to do with his missing puzzle piece making things more complicated rather than complete.

(Next)

[wingsofvoltron]

The Wish

I was doing a little writing warm-up and it kinda got away from me. Whoops. Anyway, here’s a little post S8 Klance thing. I honestly don’t know what it is or where it came from. So...hope you enjoy:

Empty eyes stared without seeing at the rippling clear water in front of him. He was far enough away to not see his reflection, but close enough to observe the way it ebbed and flowed, continuously disturbed by the falling streams that were pumped towards the sky before plunging back down to the surface. The smell of chlorine permeated the air. It wasn’t an unpleasant scent, but rather it seemed out of place compared to the foliage of the rest of the park.

The steady rumble that came from the fountain drowned out all other sounds that should have been present. He couldn’t hear the birds that perched in the few trees situated close by. He couldn’t hear the voices of the people that passed, either on their way to who-knows-where or simply stopping in the park to enjoy the warm autumn afternoon. He couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat which would be strange if not for the relief he found in its absence. He was content with not knowing its pace.

Despite the churning surface of the water, he could see the bottom of the fountain. Bronze and silver specs shifted and swayed to the cadence of the water. He knew they weren’t really moving, but the dance they appeared to be doing helped to steady his mind. He imagined what it would be like to reach in and grab a fistful of the coins. The feeling of damp metal in his palm. The sound of the metallic pieces scraping against each other. The guilt of having stolen the wishes placed so delicately upon each coin.

He would never do that, though. Steal wishes. Not when he himself had deposited so many into the very same fountain he had been standing in front of for the better part of an hour. Instead, he remained still, stuck between wanting to release another wish onto the world and wanting to keep it close to his heart. The only outwardly sign of his indecisiveness was his left hand which trembled, tightening around the small copper coin that he had brought with him.

He could still remember the first wish he had made at this fountain. He could remember the way his nerves twisted up inside him, a foreign type of anxiety eating away at him. He could remember how hard it was to release the coin, to let go and hope that the universe would do the rest. He could remember the regret as he walked away, leaving the coin to rest amongst the others below the surface. He had felt like a failure. Like he couldn’t solve his own problems. He remembered promising himself that he would never go back, that he would never make another wish.

He had lost count of the wishes he had given up to the fountain.

And here he was again, preparing to throw another one away. And while it was always hard...while it always left him with a new hole in his chest, this time it felt like it might rip his whole heart out.

Because this time he wasn’t just letting go of a single wish, he was letting go of a whole person.

It was time. He had known that for awhile. She wasn’t coming back. She was gone. There was no getting around that. And the longer he held on, the worse it was going to get. The time for turning the page and starting a new chapter was over. He needed to close the book. Completely and entirely. Once and for all.

This was his goodbye.

“Your mom said I might find you here.”

He wouldn’t have heard the voice if it hadn’t been coming from right next to him. He hadn’t even noticed that someone had come up beside him. But it wasn’t as if he was surprised. It had always been in the raven-haired boys nature to appear when he was needed, be it in combat or emotional support.

“Well, she was right. I’m here.” He replied, his tone just loud enough to hear over the rumble of the water. He didn’t bother to look at his companion, blue eyes remaining fixed on the fountain. “I thought you were still off-planet.”

“Just got back. I’m between missions right now so I decided to take a little break. Check back to see how Earth was doing and all that.” The raven-haired boy answered, his voice carrying the same seriousness it always did. The kind of seriousness that was unpredictable yet reliable. The seriousness of a leader.

“The universe still saved?”

“Last I checked. Don’t worry, I didn’t come here to pull you out of retirement.”

“Then why are you here, Keith?” It wasn’t a hostile question, but rather an honest sort of curiosity.

The raven-haired boy was silent for a minute and both stood listening to the rush of water. It was a comfortable silence. One filled with years of companionship and trust. Finally, he said, “Because I had this feeling that I needed to see you. Can’t really explain it. Just seemed like where I needed to be right now.”

That caused blue eyes to shift for the first time, gaze turning to meet indigo. They were the same eyes that he had seen a million times before in a million different situations. They were the same eyes that held a fierce determination while rushing into battle whether it be on foot or in a lion. They were the same eyes that watched the desert sunset, taking in the beauty that Earth had to offer. They were the same eyes that watched the universe learn to stand back up on its feet.

And yet…

They were different. There was something in them that he had never seen, something mysterious yet so familiar. And whatever it was, it seemed to alleviate some of weight from his shoulders. It seemed to calm the rising tide of hurt and pain that was swelling in his chest. It seemed to take his heart and hold it in place.

“So what’s your wish?” The raven-haired boy asked, nodding his head towards the fountain. “That’s why you came here, right? To make a wish?”

By some miracle, he was able to find his voice. “I can’t tell you that. It won’t come true.”

“Do you want it to come true?”

“Yeah...I think I do...” And it was true. Moments ago he would have given anything to get her back. He would have traveled to the ends of the universe if it meant he could see her again. But now...now he wasn’t so sure. Something had brought the raven-haired boy here today. Some card had been played. Some chance had been taken. And while he didn’t fully understand it, he felt like he was almost getting permission to move on. To move forward.

“Well, I have a wish.” The raven-haired boy said, fishing a penny out of his jacket pocket. “But I’ll only make it if you make yours.”

“You’re not afraid? To wish, I mean.”

The raven-haired boy shrugged. “Not really. A wish is just like asking for a little help, don’t you think? It doesn’t change whether or not the thing will happen. That’s your decision to make.”

“My decision?” He asked, grip loosening around the coin still in his hand.

The raven-hair boy gave a nod. “Yep. If you think it’s time to let her go, then you will. The wish will make it just a little easier.”

“Wait, how did you…?”

“Lucky guess.” The raven-haired boy replied with a small smile.

“You really think some silly wish will make moving on easier?” He asked, a slight shake to his voice. He could feel water start to build on the edges of his vision. He didn’t try to blink it away.

“I do. It might not be obvious though.” The raven-haired boy let out a small chuckle, eyes shining with amusement. “Maybe someone new will come along. Or maybe someone you already knew will feel some weird urge to come see you.”

“Seems a little far-fetched, don’t you think?” He asked, a single tear escaping and running down his cheek despite the half-smile that appeared on his face.

“It could happen...but you won’t know until you make your wish.”

Blue eyes turned back to the fountain, finding that the thought of throwing his penny in didn’t seem so heavy, so world-ending. Letting her go didn’t mean she was gone. It just meant that he was ready to take the next step and the one after that and the one after that. And when he really thought about it, that’s what she would want. She wasn’t coming back and for the first time, he was okay with that.

Because maybe...just maybe...he had found someone that could fill the hole she had left.

“Same time?” He asked, holding up his penny for the raven-haired boy to see. “On the count of three?”

“Count of three.”

“One…”

“Two…”

“Three.”

He watched as the two copper pennies flew through the air, gleaming under the afternoon sun. They fell almost soundlessly into the fountain, breaking the surface of the water for only a moment before it returned to its usual churning motion. They were suspended for a second before hitting the bottom, only a few inches between the two.

The usual regretful ache was nowhere to be found as blue eyes stared at the two pennies. Instead, he found a lightness had filled him, a certain relief that he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for.

“Think it’ll come true?” He asked, a soft smile on his face.

“I think it already has.” Came the reply, the raven-haired boy’s voice far gentler than he had ever heard it before.

Blue eyes once again met indigo. “What’d you wish for?”

The raven-haired boy shook his head slightly. “I can’t tell you, Lance. It won’t come true.”

“I think it already has.”

[everything-jeronica-blog]

Late Night

In which Veronica and Jughead become accidental next-door neighbors at a very haunted bed and breakfast. Cue blow-dryer weaponry, some rather unhelpful supernatural investigators, and misquoted Moby Dick.

------

Jughead shrugs his backpack more securely on his shoulders, lugging his small green suitcase behind him. If he's being honest, the bed and breakfast doesn't look that nice from the outside. It isn't awful by any means; flowers adorn the windowsill, a cute welcome mat sits in front of the door. But the paint's chipping and there are cracks in the foundation and mostly it just looks old and worn out, which is how Jughead feels after the bus ride there. Frequent stops and a bus change after the tire burst turned the four hour drive to Riverdale into seven.

With a world-weary sigh, he wheels his suitcase to the front door and tugs it open. The bell above the door jingles. He steps into a small lounge; the wooden walls inside are cracking, too, a water stain on the ceiling above the welcome desk. That's what they get for finding a cheap and mildly suspicious deal online. Too bad he has to deal with it alone, now. He passes a few floral armchairs around a rickety coffee table and stops at the front desk. He's only waiting for a moment before an older man emerges from the office, grinning at him.

"Welcome! You're Room 13, right?"

Jughead nods, removing the crinkled piece of paper he'd printed out the reservation details on. "Yeah, that's me."

"You switched from a double to a single?"

"My friend cancelled last minute."

"Right this way."

He follows the man from the lobby past the dining area, a cozy place with numerous wooden tables and sitting areas. Old paintings hang on the walls (probably to cover more water stains, he thinks bitterly).

As they pass the dining area, the man says, "That's where you'll come for breakfast, served from 8 to 11. If you're late, there's no breakfast."

The common area connected to the dining area is completely empty. "Is the hotel low on visitors today?"

The man clears his throat, glancing away. "Bad weekend for trips. It's supposed to rain."

It's not. Jughead checked the weather three times before coming.

He takes Jughead down a long hallway to a dark wooden door with the small golden plaque labelled "Room 13" on it. He's unlocking it and explaining to Jughead that if he loses the key it's an extra charge when the neighboring door opens and a head pops out. The girl's smiling, the kind of smile that makes Jughead's knees a little weak.

"Could I get an extra towel, please?" she asks.

The owner nods, "Be right there."

Jughead expects the girl to close the door and go back to her business, but she stays hovering there, insufferably pretty smile fixed on Jughead. "Hi, neighbor."

"Hey," Jughead shuffles his feet awkwardly, throwing a wave her way.

A rather loud thump comes from somewhere above them. The girl jumps. "What was that?"

"Huh? Uh, I'll go see," the owner says, opening Jughead's door. "There's Wi-Fi and a TV. Towels and toiletries in the bathroom. Tell me if you need anything." He hands Jughead the key and strides quickly away.

Jughead drags his suitcase inside the room with a half-hearted nod to his neighbor. The room's small, a double bed across a TV stand and a little window with frilly curtains. Outdated floral wallpaper covers the walls, and unsurprisingly, there are more water stains on the ceiling.

At least there's a microwave, tucked onto a table in the corner. With a sigh, he tosses his backpack on the bed. He face-plants after it, sandaled foot knocking into the side table. Something clatters to the floor. Squeezing his eyes shut, he counts to three, takes a deep breath, then sits back up because that clattering very well may have been his cellphone.

A flap of wood hangs loose from the bottom of the table. On the floor lies a jeweled brooch. Jughead glances between the secret compartment and the spider brooch with the disbelief of someone running on far too little sleep and no differentiation between reality and imagination. Once he’s convinced himself this isn’t a sleep-deprived hallucination, he examines the brooch with careful fingers. It is made with rubies and shaped like a spider.  

A knock on the door interrupts his interest. He places the brooch on his table and gets up to answer. It's the girl from next door, grinning a little sheepishly, rubbing the back of her head.

"Uh, hi again," she says. Now that Jughead can see her from head-to-toe, he's even more enamored. She’s gorgeous, smooth skin and small figure, legs on display in dress. "This is kind of weird, but do you have any plastic bags? I brought way too much ramen, and I don't want to leave it in my suitcase."

Jughead turns to his own suitcase, unzipping it and removing a store of plastic bags he'd brought just in case.

"Thanks. I'm Veronica, by the way. Here for two nights."

"Jughead," he offers hesitantly.

"Nice to meet you, Jughead. Did you come all alone?"

"My friend bailed. He forgot to do an assignment for university." Archie had called him three days ago in a panic because he realized his end-of-the-year thesis was due and he only had three pages written. They'd reserved the rooms only a week ago after finding a particularly cheap deal online; it was supposed to be a stress-free weekend, which they both needed desperately.

"So did mine. He got sick."

"Your boylfriend?" Jughead blurts without thinking. He has to restrain himself from clapping a hand over his mouth in regret.

The corner of Veronica's mouth turns up in an almost knowing smirk. "Just a friend."

"Right," he clears his throat. "Uh, anyway. Nice meeting you. I'm gonna get to bed." He isn't entirely lying; it's late, and he just spent seven hours on the bus.

"See you at breakfast, Jughead." To his irritation, the smirk doesn't fade as Veronica waves and backs away.

"Yeah." Jughead closes the door between them, face aflame.

This time he really does fling himself onto the bed.

 He had entirely intended on sleeping but ends up tucked under the covers with his laptop resting on his stomach, scrolling mindlessly through Twitter. Far too late into the night, a thump comes from the wall behind his head, startling him into nearly jerking his headphones off. It's followed by a low moan. Jughead flushes. The absolute last thing he wants to do is sit around listening to Veronica getting off. He turns his laptop volume up.

Ten minutes later, there's another thump, louder this time.       

"What the fuck," Jughead mutters, turning around to glare at the wall separating his room from Veronica's, as if the force of his irritation can travel.

His eyes are drifting shut when the third thump comes, too close for comfort. The phonebook on his side table falls off. He doesn’t bother picking it up, glaring at it for a moment before turning his laptop off and putting it away, burrowing further into the covers. Another moan; it’s so close it might as well have been right by his ear. It doesn’t really sound like a pleasured, getting-off kind of moan. If he’s being honest, it sounds kind of fucking creepy. Jughead puts his pillow over his head.

The sound of long fingernails scraping against the wall between their rooms finally breaks him. He flings his covers aside, marching to the door with a purpose. Cute or not, sunshine smile be damned, Veronica’s about to get her ass whooped.

He bumps right into Veronica coming out of her own room. They pause in the middle of the hall, staring at each other.

“Hey, can you keep it down?” Veronica says, rubbing her cheek. Her hair is a mess, eyes swollen like she was already asleep. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Jughead bristles. “Can I keep it down? You’re the one thumping around.”

“You’re the one moaning.”

“I wasn’t moaning! You were thumping and moaning and scratching the walls—”

“Nope, that was definitely you.” Veronica crosses her arms, jaw set stubbornly.

“I’ve literally been lying in bed on Twitter for, like, the past two hours.”

“I’ve been sleeping.”

They glare at each other for another moment before Jughead finally breaks. “Well, if it wasn’t you and it wasn’t me, then who the fuck is making all that noise?”

Veronica’s eyes widen perceptibly. “Holy fuck, this place is haunted.”

Jughead snorts. "As if. It's probably one of the rooms above us."

"There's no one else staying here except us. I asked."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Not one person."

Jughead wraps his hoodie tighter around himself, throwing a surreptitious glance about the dark hallway. A few dim lamps sit on mahogany tables down the hall, but other than that, it's just them and dancing shadows. This is what he gets for finding cheap, sketchy deals online. He's going to kill Archie for ditching him. "Whatever. I'm going back to sleep."

He turns around and shuffles back toward his room. One step inside, he realizes Veronica's on his heels, close enough he can feel the heat of her body. "What are you doing?" he mutters, glancing behind him. Veronica is even more ridiculously attractive close up.

"You can't leave me alone if there's a ghost around."

"There's no fucking ghost—"

"Being alone is what gets everyone killed in the horror movies. We gotta stick together."

"This is an invasion of privacy," Jughead complains as Veronica follows him all the way into the room, kicking the door shut behind her.

"It's survival."

"Don't be so damn dramatic." He tucks his sweatshirt sleeves around his fingers. The room has grown colder. A cursory check of the thermostat shows a drastically lowered temperature, even though he can't remember touching it.

Veronica sits in the old armchair in the corner of Jughead's room. She looks nervous, glancing around him every few seconds as if he really does believe in ghosts. "So, uh, how long are you here for?"

It's clear she's just trying to take her mind off the potential "ghost" that might be haunting them. She looks so tense it makes Jughead feel bad, so he sits on the bed across from her and says, "Just the weekend. Where are you from?"

"New York."

"I study in New York, too."

"You know, one of my good friends is from—”

The doorknob of Jughead's bathroom turns, like someone's pulling it with an invisible string, and the door creaks open at an agonizingly slow pace. Jughead freezes, gaping at the now-open bathroom, but Veronica shrieks. In one smooth bound, she leaps from the armchair to the bed, clinging to Jughead's arm.

"I told you it was a fucking ghost."

"Calm down. It was just an accident. This place is old, probably has a faulty foundation that leads to doors opening all the time." But even as he says it, he knows he doesn't quite believe himself.

"But the knob spun, Jug." Veronica's warm, and her breath tickles Jughead's cheek. He looks pointedly at the door, knowing that if he turns back to Veronica their faces will be far too close. Thinking about Veronica’s proximity, however, is a little easier than thinking about a would-be ghost. His parents are terribly superstitious, but Jughead has never really believed in ghosts.  

"It's probably loose."

"It's not loose. It turned."

"Listen, there's no such thing as—”

The landscape painting hanging on the wall by the window falls, crashing to the ground with a crack. This time Jughead jumps, too, even if he denies it. Veronica yells, curling closer to his side until Jughead can't help but be vaguely grateful for whatever odd situation they have found themselves in.

"That's a ghost, that's definitely a ghost," Veronica babbles, jumping to her feet and dragging Jughead along behind her.

"Where are you going?" Jughead exclaims, exasperated, but he’s looking around just as nervously.  

"I don't know, but we can't stay in this room. In the horror movies they always follow the noises and end up dead."

She stops by the bathroom, digging around in the cabinets. "What are you looking for?"

"A weapon."

"Ghosts are dead. What are you gonna do with a weapon?"

"I dunno, but it's better than not trying." Veronica's head emerges from inside a cabinet holding, rather triumphantly, a battery-operated blow-dryer. Then she pulls Jughead out the door and back into the dark hallway, which is monumentally less appealing than his room. If anyone's going to die at the hands of a vengeful ghost tonight, it'll probably be in a hallway. But Veronica's hands on Jughead's arm are shaking, and if he's being honest, Jughead's kind of fucking creeped out, too.

"Come on. Let's find the manager."

"Okay." Veronica calms a little at the suggestion. This time, she’s the one who follows Jughead down the hall obediently.

They're halfway to his office in the lobby when the lights shut off—every dim lamp, every ceiling light piece, even the glowing blue backlighting for the dining hall counter. Veronica shrieks, louder than before, clutching onto Jughead so tight he loses all feeling in his arm.

"We're gonna die, we're gonna die, we're gonna die—"

"Shh," Jughead hisses.

The voice is muffled, distant, almost distorted. First it's high, floating through the hall, then pitched lower. He can't make out the words. It sounds agonized, like it's singing a sad song or crying out in pain. Veronica's fingers tremble, and this time Jughead's do, too.

"Shh," he says, gentler this time. He feels around for Veronica, running soothing hands over her hair and pulling her close.

The lights come back on. Jughead finds himself mere inches from Veronica's face, her terrified eyes locked on his own.

"We gotta get out of here," Veronica says.

"Where the hell are we supposed to go? Buses aren't running anymore."

"We can walk."

"Walk where? I don't know shit about Riverdale."

"Well, we can't just stay here."

"We have to find the manager and figure out what's going on," Jughead says decidedly, pulling Veronica along after him. It's probably not the best time to be thinking about how Veronica's hand feels in his, slender and smooth. "Maybe it's a prank."

Veronica scoffs, but she doesn't pull away. The manager's bedroom connects to his office off to the side of the lobby. They knock on the office door, first. It creaks open, the room dark and empty, neat desk and empty bookshelves.

"He's not here," Veronica says, tugging on Jughead's hand.

"He's probably sleeping." Jughead steps into the office despite Veronica's whispered protests. Nothing out of the ordinary happens. He knocks on the bedroom door—once, twice, three times, to no answer.

"Out," comes the hissed whisper from behind them. They spin around to a flash of white and red, stringy hair, floating well above the ground.

Veronica shrieks and turns on the blow-dryer, waving it in front of her blindly. She trips in her haste to back away, taking Jughead down with her. They fall in a bundle of limbs and knocking elbows, the blow-dryer still puffing hot air on the ground by Veronica's hand. Whatever was there is now gone. Jughead looks at Veronica, sprawled on her back, gaping, and then at the blow-dryer, small with a flowery logo on the side.

Then he bursts into laughter.

He laughs so hard his sides hurt, smacking the ground with his palm, wheezing for breath. "Did you—fucking—see your face?"

"Did you see the ghost?" Veronica shoots back, but the longer Jughead laughs, the less scared Veronica looks. Jughead can’t tell if it’s one of those hysterical moments where he’s so frightened he can’t do anything but laugh, or if the situation really is as funny as it seems.

"You were really about to use a goddamn blow-dryer to fight off a ghost—”

"At least I wasn't just standing there like your useless ass—”

There's a chuckle from the distance. They both freeze—until Jughead starts laughing again. "Even the ghost’s laughing at you."

Veronica's looking scared again, sitting up and scooting closer to Jughead. "Try the door again."

Jughead knocks one more time, then fiddles with the doorknob. It's not locked. When he opens the door, he finds that the manager's bedroom is empty. The bed is made, the dresser is clean, like no one lives there at all. "He's not here."

"That's fucking weird."

"Maybe he's just taking a round of the place to make sure nothing's wrong."

They stand there, staring at each other. For the millionth time that day, Jughead wonders what kind of mess he's gotten himself into.

"A medium," Veronica says suddenly. "We can call a medium."

"A what?"

"You know. Those ghost experts."

Jughead's still trying to mentally catch up by the time Veronica heads out the door and through the lobby. He hurries to reach her. They’re almost to their rooms when something cold touches Jughead’s back, sending shivers up his spine and his heartbeat racing. He reacts without thinking, grabbing Veronica and pushing her against the wall, pressing close as the brush of cold passes by. When he chances a glance behind him, he sees a flutter of white turn the corner. If possible his heartbeat races even faster, goosebumps erupting on his skin. He’s never believed in ghosts, but there’s nothing he can do to explain this away.

“Holy fuck,” Veronica says.                                                                                                               

Jughead turns to her and realizes that he’s got Veronica against the wall with his hands on either side of her, faces inches from each other. He flushes and jumps back. “So, uh, the medium.”

“Right.” Veronica marches back to her room, where she heads straight for her cellphone, tossed carelessly on the bed.

"Aren't those people all fakes, though?” Jughead says rather skeptically, sitting next to her on the bed with a sigh.

Veronica looks scandalized. "Of course not." She's searching something on her phone. “Okay, here’s someone kind of close. SP and Fangs Supernatural Investigators.”

Jughead shrugs. Veronica dials, glancing nervously around her as the phone rings on speaker. The call connects, and what they hear on the other side is not in the slightest bit reassuring. High-pitched shrieking filters through the call, mixed with the sounds of thumping and breaking glass.

“SP and Fangs Supernatural Investigators at your service,” says the surprisingly calm voice on the other end. “Fangs speaking. What can I do for you?”

“We’re staying in a bed and breakfast and there’s a ghost going around and turning lights off and dropping things and the manager’s disappeared—”

Another voice, muffled by distance, shouts, “It’s coming for my dick, it’s coming for my dick—”

Fangs yells back, “Use the goddamn holy water, Sweet Pea!” His shout morphs into the same calm, collected voice as before as he says, “I’ll have to call you back. We’re kind of the middle of something. Thanks!”

He hangs up. They’re left looking at the cellphone in Veronica’s hand, dial tone ringing ominously.

“Call a medium, huh,” Jughead mutters.

“It’s fine. We can just try someone else. Look, there’s another number here. Toni Topaz, the finest medium in all of Riverdale,” she reads from the website with its black background and drippy green font.

“Sounds so promising.”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

Jughead huffs.

Toni Topaz picks up after one ring. “Toni Topaz, how can I help you?”

“We’re spending the night in a bed and breakfast, and there’s a ghost haunting us.”

“A bed and breakfast? The one owned by the Blossom family? Acquired in 1978? On the corner between the convenience store and the meat restaurant?”

“Yeah, that one.”

Toni Topaz hangs up.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Jughead groans, falling back onto the bed. A thump on the ceiling is so loud it sends dust floating into the air. He sits back up, scooting towards Veronica unintentionally.

“Why’d she hang up?” Veronica sounds even more distressed than before. “I’m calling someone else.” She jams the next number in almost frantically.

“Kevin Keller speaking.” This voice, as it should be, comes groggy and tired like he’s just woken up.

“Are you a medium? Can you deal with ghosts?” Veronica asks, clearly trying to be a little subtler this time.

“That’s my job. What kind of haunting are we talking about?”

“We’ve seen the ghost, white dress and red hair. It’s turned the lights off, thumped on walls, moaned, and told us to get out.”

“Classic haunting.” He sighs, sounding slightly less tired than before. “Can you give me your location?”

“The bed and breakfast between—”

“—between the convenience store and the restaurant? Why the hell are you staying there?”

“We got good deals,” Jughead throws in, rather confused. “What do you mean why the hell are we staying here?”

“That place is notorious. No one around here goes within ten feet of it. Everyone knows it’s haunted.”

“We’re not from around here,” Veronica says.

“So can you help us or not?” Jughead snaps.

“Nope. I don’t fuck with that place. But I know a guy who can. He only takes special cases, the real crazy stuff, and he’s the best around. He sets the gold standard for mediums everywhere, honestly.” He rattles off a phone number that Jughead dials into his own phone. “His name’s Dilton. Call him and tell him Kevin sent you.”

“Got it, thanks.” Jughead’s already ringing Dilton by the time Veronica hangs up.

“How’d you get this number?” The first thing Dilton says isn’t exactly promising. Veronica glances at Jughead with an anxious twist to her mouth.

“Kevin sent us?” Jughead says it like a question. This whole thing still seems like something out of a bullshit movie, and he’s not exactly sure how to handle it.

“Oh, okay.” His voice changes to marginally less threatening. “What do you need?”

For the fourth time that day, they explain the details of their night. Dilton is silent long enough that Jughead resigns himself to another rejection. He’s already playing out the rest of the night in his head—Veronica shrieking, fluttering white turning the corner, lights flickering on and off. The tension of it might just kill him before dawn.

Finally, Dilton speaks, his voice trembling with restrained emotion. “I’ve been trying to get rid of that ghost for years.”

“You what?”

“Are you serious?”

A moan sounds through the wall, low and frightening. Veronica squeaks, fumbling her phone.

“I’ve stayed in that bed and breakfast three times, and I’ve failed every time. It’s the only ghost I’ve never managed to defeat. The manager doesn’t let me back anymore. Says I’m wasting his time.”

“Well, the manager is mysteriously missing.”

“That bastard. He probably dipped so you wouldn’t come at him for not warning you about the ghost.”

“So can you help us?”

“Help you? Help you?” Dilton laughs rather maniacally. “I’ll chase that white dress-wearing ghost on both sides of land, and over all sides of earth, till it spouts black blood and rolls fin out—”

Veronica leans over to Jughead’s ear and mutters, “Is he quoting Moby Dick?”

“—I will have my revenge against that accursed red ghost—”

Another low moan. Jughead shudders. “Dude, are you coming or not?”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Dilton says, then promptly hangs up.

They spend the fifteen minutes clutching each other with vague, distant ghost noises keeping them company. “What if this is how we die?” Veronica whispers at some point.

“We’re not going to die, Ronnie,” Jughead murmurs back. He’s not entirely sure it’s true.

Dilton comes in guns blazing—almost literally. They hear him marching down the hall before they see him, and the purpose in his heavy steps is comforting. They run out to meet him. In both hands he clutches odd machines that look a little like leaf-blowers, one blue and one glowing green. He looks far too young to be a renowned medium. In fact, he looks like he’s barely out of high school.

“Where is it?” he growls. “It’s not getting away from me today.”

“What the hell are those things?” Jughead bursts, eyeing the leaf-blowers with trepidation.

“Anti-ghost siphoning machines,” Dilton says like it’s obvious. “I invented them. That’s why I’m the best.”

“Huh.”

“What have you done so far?”

They stare at him blankly.

“To fight it off. What have you done?”

“I tried blowing it away with a blowdryer,” Veronica supplies.

“Always a good tactic.” Dilton nods very seriously. Jughead wants to sink into a hole. There’s no way this kid is the best medium around. “I’ve gotten rid of plenty of ghosts with vacuums before.”

“So what’s the plan? How are we getting this one?”

“I’ve tried tearing its essence free from this house before, but no luck. The house used to belong to a very wealthy family before they died off and the property was turned into a hotel. I suspect the ghost is a daughter of the family who succumbed to disease when she was a teenager.”

“So it’s a she?”

“Well, the spirit of a dead person is essentially genderless even if it takes the form of a woman in a dress, but I suppose technically since it’s the spirit of a dead female it would be—”

“Hey,” Jughead interrupts. “What if the ghost is attached to an object, not the house?”

They both turn to him, eyes wide.

Jughead shrugs, scuffing his toes against the ground. “I mean, isn’t that what always happens in the horror movies?”

Dilton looks flustered. “An object—I can’t believe—that’s genius. I can’t believe I’ve never thought of that before.”

“But what could the object be? There’s, like, a million objects in this damn place,” Veronica says.

“I found a brooch in this secret drawer in my room earlier today. Maybe it’s hers.”

“Jug!” Veronica exclaims. “You found what?”

Jughead shrugs again. “A brooch. Looked pretty old.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I dunno, didn’t seem that important.”

“Take me to it,” Dilton says immediately, tossing his leaf-blowers aside. “I can use it to summon and talk to the ghost.”

The pretty, jeweled brooch still sits on the side table where he had carelessly left it. Dilton takes it into his hands almost reverently. He holds it for a while, brows furrowed, eyes unfocused. Every now and then, he murmurs something under his breath.

The ghost appears without warning. White dress with transparent, wispy edges, stringy red hair falling down to the waist that looks wet, almost entirely concealing the transparent face. It floats a foot off the ground, hovering in front of them. This time, when Veronica screams, Jughead does, too.

“I face you at last,” Dilton says, waving his arm out dramatically.

“Not you again,” comes a voice, and rather than the frightening out it had hissed before, now the ghost sounds like an irritated teenage girl. Despite the fact that her mouth doesn’t move when she speaks. “Haven’t you given up yet?”

“I will never give up, not until I have rid this world of your evil presence. I will put an end to your tormenting of the innocent living—”

“Tormenting?” If they could see her eyes, Jughead imagines she would probably be rolling them. “I don’t torment anyone.”

“You were tormenting us,” Veronica blurts.

“I was just bored.”

Jughead scoffs. Bored. He could be sleeping right now if a goddamn ghost hadn’t decided to use them as entertainment.

“I have your most prized possession.” Dilton holds up the brooch. That’s a bit of a stretch, considering they don’t even know if she’s attached to it or not, but Dilton looks fairly convinced.

“Give that back. My grandmother gave that to me.” Her edges flutter like she’s going to charge for him, but he shakes the stick in front of him like it’s a shield. She doesn’t move.

“This is what’s keeping you here, right? You’re more attached to this brooch than anything else.”

“It was my last gift from my grandmother before she died.”

“You’re dead, too. Why are you stuck here when you can join her in the afterlife?”

“I died alone. Nobody said my funeral rites.”

“Then you should have become a wandering ghost.”

“I’m stuck here. Because of that.” She raises one arm, concealed entirely within the sleeve of the dress, toward the brooch.

“Then I’ll read your funeral rites over this brooch, and you can finally rest. What do you think?”

“That sounds nice,” she says, full of breathy relief.

He asks for her name, and then he performs the funeral rites, adjusted since they don’t actually have a body. They follow him out the back door of the bed and breakfast to a small garden behind the house. There, he buries the brooch. Veronica and Jughead each toss a handful of dirt. Once the last speck of dirt has fallen, a rush of soft air envelops them, a quiet sigh sounding in their ears. The ghost is gone.

Dilton doesn’t look as relieved as he should, considering how long he has been trying to get rid of the ghost. He looks almost sad, and even though Jughead should be happy that the mess of a night is over, he feels a little sad, too. Something about such close contact with death tends to put a damper on things.

Dilton shakes their hands before leaving.

“Guess you are the best,” Jughead says.

“Guess so,” Dilton grins.

When he’s gone, Veronica drags Jughead straight to her room.

“Time to crash,” she says, bags under her eyes. “I’m exhausted.”

After all they’ve been through, sharing a bed with Veronica should be the least surprising event of the night. Still, when Jughead collapses next to Veronica, the latter’s arm slung around his waist, he feels rather nervous. But Veronica is warm and comforting and the ghost is gone, and just before Jughead falls asleep, he thinks that in the morning he’ll ask Veronica if she wants to find a hotel room with him somewhere else and finish out their vacations together. Somewhere new and crowded and very, very not-haunted.

 Three knocks on their door, loud enough that the frame shakes, wake them a few hours later. Jughead sits up, rubbing his eyes, sun filtering in through the curtains. His first thought is that the ghost is back and they’re fucked after all. But then a voice on the other end says, “Open up! We’re here to help.”

“What’s going on?” Veronica mumbles, groggy.

Jughead pats her hair. “Go back to sleep.” He makes it to the door and opens it, yawning. Two guys stand there, one about his height with brown hair, the other one tall and intimidating.

“SP and Fangs Supernatural Investigators,” says the taller one.

“Where’s the ghost?” demands the smaller one.

“You’re late,” Jughead says, and kicks the door shut.

[winteriron-trash]

(I Am) A Little Wicked [Chapter 4]

A/N: Happy Thursday! We’re back again with this lovely, dark fic. No, I still haven’t gotten it on Ao3, because Ao3 won’t let me post new works for some reason. I’m trying to fix that. There’s a two-year time lapse from the last chapter, and trust me, we’re getting to the good stuff. Mostly Tony stuff, but a bit of Maria at the end. This is a long chapter too, so strap in. Lemme know if you wanna be added to the tag list, and many thanks to my muse, @lovinthepizzalife

Extreme TW for racial slurs, and graphic depictions of violence in this chapter. if you can’t handle the racial slurs just jump down to the first time skip. All you need to know is Rhodey got beat up by some racist assholes. If you don’t want to read the violence, stop reading at about the part Tony hangs up the phone after talking to Rhodey and pick up again after the next time skip. Stay safe, know your triggers. Sorry for a long A/N, that just needed to be said.

Playlist | Summary/Warnings | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

-

“Tones, I’m telling you, one day all that coffee is gonna short-circuit your brain.” Rhodey elbowed Tony as they walked down the dark streets.

Tony grinned. “Well, where’s the fun if you don’t live on the edge?”

Rhodey laughed, shaking his head. “The fun is in having a long lifespan, man. Living to be thirty.”

“Who wants to be thirty anyway?” Tony rolled his eyes. “You’re old and cranky and you look down on everyone.”

“You won’t be looking down on anyone,” Rhodey promised. “They’ll be looking down at you, short stuff.”

“Hey!” Tony smacked his arm. “You’re an asshole. I’m fun sized.”

“You’re something alright.” Rhodey shook his head with a smile. “Alright, here’s your dorm.” They stopped walking in front of the brick building.

“You didn’t have to walk me, you know,” Tony said, making a face as he got out his badge to unlock the door. “I’m a big boy, I can handle myself.”

“You’re a seventeen-year-old, five-foot tall little shit.” Rhodey corrected. “I’m just looking out for you, Tones.”

Tony stuck his tongue out. “Don’t go soft on me, Platypus.” He opened the door.

“Goodnight, Tony,” Rhodey called out, smiling so hard it hurt. “Get some sleep!”

“Love you too, mom!” Tony shouted back, shutting the door behind himself. Rhodey watched his figure disappear from the view of the windows. God, he loved that scrappy kid.

Rhodey sighed, flipping up his hood. His dorm was on the other side of the campus, and it was already late. Tony was right, Rhodey didn’t have to walk him back, but Rhodey liked looking out for Tony. The kid was smart but eccentric and weird around people. Even if Justin Hammer hadn’t harassed him in years for reasons Rhodey still didn’t understand, there were still others who did. Rhodey just wanted to keep his best friend out of trouble.

Rhodey wasn’t sure how far he’d been walking, he was maybe about halfway to his own dorm when he heard shouting.

“Hey! Fucking nigger!”

Rhodey felt his spine tighten. He couldn’t even walk home, could he? He kept his head down, glaring at the ground.

“Hey, listen to us when we’re talking to you!” A different voice shouted.

Great, so there was more than one. Rhodey’s heart started beating faster. It was fine. They were probably just a bunch of drunk frat boys. It was fine.

“Go back to Africa!” There was whooping laughter at that comment from the entire group. Rhodey didn’t dare look back and try to count, but there were easily more than three. The footsteps were getting closer. It took every ounce of self-preservation Rhodey had to stop from breaking out into a run.

“Hey!” A hand grabbed Rhodey’s shoulder and yanked him back. Rhodey was forced to spin around, heart pounding so hard he could barely see straight. There were five of them, all bigger than Rhodey.

“Look, man, I don’t want any trouble-” Rhodey held up his hands, taking a step backwards.

One of the guys stepped forward and shoved Rhodey. “Fucking nigger. Go back to Africa you dumb filthy piece of shit.”

Rhodey swallowed down bile. “I don’t-”

The first hit landed right over Rhodey’s face, sending him tumbling backwards onto the ground. He barely had enough time to cup his own bleeding nose before hands were tugging him back to his feet so he could get punched in the gut.

There was cheering and shouting all around Rhodey, slurs and insults shouted at him. Rhodey lost track of how many times he was hit, or who was even hitting him any more, it was a blur of pain and noise.

“Hey.” A slap cracked across Rhodey’s cheekbone, bringing him back to awareness. “Look at me, you filthy nigger.”

Rhodey blinked hard, trying to focus on the guy in front of him in the faint streetlamp light. He was tall with a leather jacket and blond hair.

“If I see you again, I’m gonna cut your filthy nigger heart out.” The guy taunted, then he punched Rhodey, and that was the last thing Rhodey felt before he passed out.

-

Tony was absolutely seething when he heard the news. He stared at his phone, vision going red. Rhodey. Hospital. The words barely seemed to click, the idea of it made Tony want to throw up. Rhodey was in the hospital. Some assholes landed his Rhodey in the hospital.

Tony didn’t even realize he was dialling Maria’s number until he had the phone pressed against his ear, pacing around his room.

“Good morning, figlio,” Maria answered, her voice warm.

“Madre.” Tony took a deep breath. “My friend is in the hospital.”

There was a pause. “Oh, tesoro,” She said, tone radiating with sympathy. “Rhodes? What happened to him?”

“A bunch of assholes.” Tony hissed through grit teeth. “Racist assholes.”

“Oh,” Maria murmured. “Tesoro.”

Tony glared at the wall. “They hurt my friend, madre. He’ll be fine but…” Tony swallowed. “They hurt my friend.” Tony sat down on his bed, pulling out the knife he kept under his pillow. “I wanted to ask your permission, make sure you were okay with… me taking care of it.”

“Figlio,” Maria said. “You’re a Carbonell. We take care of our family. Rhodes is a lovely young man. I’d send someone in to take care of it if you didn’t.”

“No, that’s fine.” Tony shook his head, twisting the knife between his fingers. “This is personal. I’ll take care of it. Thank you, madre.”

“Of course.” Tony could hear the smile in Maria’s voice. “Tonio, don’t forget I’m leaving for my business trip this weekend. You might not be able to get in touch with me this weekend, I don’t know how busy I’ll be. You can always call Jarvis if you need anything.”

“I know.” Tony nodded, standing up. “Take care of yourself, madre.”

Maria chuckled. “Don’t I always? Goodbye, ‘Tonio.”

“Love you.” Tony hung up and immediately started dialling a new number. He pressed the phone to his ear again, waiting for someone to pick up.

“Hello?” Rhodey’s voice was hoarse, but it was there and Tony felt a weight lift off his shoulders.

“Hey Platypus.” Tony cleared his throat.

Rhodey’s sigh of relief was audible. “Hey, Tones.”

Tony wasn’t sure what to say at first. “So is hospital food as bad as they say?” Tony asked.

Rhodey let out a shaky laugh from the other end and Tony smiled. “Man, it tastes like cardboard. You could cook better than they do.”

“Hey!” Tony laughed. “My ramen is made with love.”

“Love and other diseases.” Rhodey teased.

Tony shook his head. “How are you?”

“I’m okay.” Rhodey deflated a bit. “It’s better than it sounds. Just a broken nose, a concussion, some cracked ribs and a few bruises. They’re gonna let me out in a few days. For now, they’re more worried about the emotional recovery.”

Tony studied his knife. “Did you give your statement to the police?”

Rhodey sighed. “Yeah, but they didn’t seem too interested. They said my descriptions were vague at best, and if I really wanted them to catch the guys I would’ve been more helpful.”

“It was the middle of the fucking night and they were beating you!” Tony nearly shouted.

“I know,” Rhodey said. “I know, Tones. But it’s fine. This kind of thing happens a lot. I’m lucky there was nothing permanent. Just some scrapes and bruises.” His voice was too hollow for the sentiment to feel real.

“What did they look like?” Tony asked, rubbing his thumb along the flat of the blade.

“Tones, why does it matter? You can’t do any more than the police can.”

“Maybe I can go to the police. Say I was a witness. They’ll listen to Tony Stark.” Tony lied without hesitation.

“You don’t have to-”

“Humour me, Rhodes. Please?” Tony begged.

Rhodey let out another sigh. “There were five of them. They were all white.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Tony rolled his eyes.

“They were big. Like, six foot all of them. Easily. Muscular. I think one was wearing a jersey.” Rhodey listed. “It was dark. The only one I got a good look at was the one who said he would cut my heart out. He was blond, had a leather jacket. Green eyes, I think. Southern accent, like he was from Texas or somewhere down there. I don’t really know. It was hard to focus, Tones.”

Tony’s skin crawled with red-hot anger. “He told you he was going to cut your heart out?” Tony whispered jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

“It was an empty threat, Tones. Calm down.” Rhodey tried to sooth.

Tony gripped his knife. “I’ll visit you tomorrow. I’ve got something to do today, gotta do some chores. But I’ll be there bright and early tomorrow, okay?” Tony was already on his feet, grabbing his jacket.

“I didn’t know Tony Stark did anything bright and early.” Rhodey teased.

“Oh shut up. Love you, platypus.” Tony smiled.

“Yeah, you too, Tones.”

Tony hung up his phone, tossing it aside. He knew just from Rhodey’s descriptions who the blond guy was, as well as the other four. A bunch of loud mouth assholes who were on the football team and thought they were hot shit. Tony tugged on his jacket, sliding the knife into his pocket. He should probably bring more than a hand knife, but a part of him wanted it to be up close and personal.

No one touched Tony’s family.

-

Tony wasn’t surprised to find all five assholes crammed into one dorm, drinking and being loud assholes.

“What do you want?” One asked, glaring down at Tony as he answered the door.

Tony offered a sickly sweet smile, trying not to let his gaze linger on the bruised knuckles the guy had. “Just wanted to talk. About what you all were doing last night.”

The guy scoffed. “We weren’t in the dorms last night, so don’t even start with another fucking noise complaint.”

Tony took a step forward, and he must’ve been glaring harder than he thought because the guy took a step back. “I know you weren’t in the dorms. You were beating up my best friend.”

The talking from the other four quieted and they all focused on Tony. Tony shut the door behind himself, hand sliding into his pocket.

“Unless you got a fucking arrest warrant, fuck off.” The blond with green eyes glared at Tony.

“I don’t need one.” Tony tilted his head to the side, offering the sweetest smile, with all his teeth showing.

After that, one of the dudes charged Tony, and Tony didn’t hesitate. He didn’t pay too much attention to his motions, didn’t make it clean or quick. It was bloody and painful, the knife cutting off screams.

He smiled the whole way through it.

Tony did make sure of one thing, though. That the blond was the last one left alone, face covered with a spray of his friend’s blood as he cowered in the corner.

Tony walked over to the blond, stepping over dead bodies. He knelt right in front of the guy, tilting his head to the side.

“What was it, that you told my friend?” Tony murmured, leaning in close. “Something about cutting his heart out?”

“It was just a joke, I didn’t-”

“Do you even know how to cut a heart out?” Tony asked. “The movies make it look like it’s easy, but…” Tony pressed the knife against the blond’s chest. “It’s harder than it looks. You can’t go through the chest, the sternum is in the way. You have to make a cut right across the top of the abdomen instead.” Tony dragged his knife across the guy's skin, just below his ribcage. He was too paralyzed with horror to do anything other than watch. “Then you have to cut through the diaphragm, right under the ribs.” Tony pushed his knife into the cut. “It’s easier to do with a scalpel, but sometimes you have to make do.”

“Please…” The blond begged.

Tony flashed a feral grin. “And after you cut through the diaphragm you take the knife out,” Tony yanked his knife free, putting it back in his pocket. “And reach right inside the chest…” Tony pushed his hand into the incision, curling his hand around the blond’s heart. The way the blond’s eyes went wide was almost comical. Tony could feel his heart beating fast, right in Tony’s hand. Tony leaned in close, lips right next to his ear. “And then all you need is one hard tug.”

Tony ripped the blond’s heart right out of his chest.

Pulling back, Tony watched green eyes go glassy as blood poured out of his abdomen.

“See? Easy.” Tony stared at the human heart in his hand, still pouring blood. He dropped it. “That’s how you cut someone’s heart out.” Tony stood up, running a bloody hand through his hair. “No one hurts my friend.” An old memory surfaced in Tony’s mind and he smiled. “I hope Il Diavolo keeps you warm in Hell.”

Tony turned on his heel and walked out of the room, happily humming to himself.

-

“James?” A knock came on Rhodey’s door and he glanced up from his textbook. A nurse smiled at him. “You have a visitor.” She stepped out of the room, and Tony came in.

“Hi.” Tony flashed a bright smile, walking in with two coffees in his hands. “I’m not sure if you’re allowed to have this, but I charmed the nurse to let me in with it so here.” Tony set a hot coffee down on the desk next to Rhodey.

Rhodey smiled. “Hey, Tones. Nice to see you up and perky in the morning.”

“And it only took me one coffee.” Tony smiled proudly. “Besides this one.” He held up the cup in his other hand, taking a sip from it. Tony’s coffee was iced and probably filled with too much sugar.

“How are you?” Rhodey asked, grabbing his own coffee.

“Shouldn’t I be asking the bedridden one that?” Tony said with a flat stare.

Rhodey waved him off. “I’m fine, really. They’re just fussing over me.”

“You call your mom yet?” Tony pulled himself up to sit on the desk next to Rhodey.

“Yeah.” Rhodey nodded. “She can’t fly out, but my sister’s visiting next weekend.”

“That’s good.” Tony hummed.

Rhodey took a steadying breath. “Hey, Tones?”

“Hm?” Tony glanced up.

“Did you see the news report last night?” Rhodey asked. “About those five dead bodies, they found? At the college?”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Heard it was a bloodbath.” He didn’t sound at all perturbed by the information.

“You know, I saw their pictures.” Rhodey cleared his throat. “They looked a lot like the guys who kicked my ass.”

“Weird.” Tony tilted his head to the side. He sounded utterly unbothered. It was… unnerving.

Rhodey bit the inside of his cheek. “Tony, did you know you were the only person I told, about the part where the guy said he was gonna cut my heart out?”

“No, I didn’t.” Tony’s eyebrows jumped a bit, but the surprise seemed beyond fake.

“Did you know they found that guy, and only that guy, with his heart, ripped out?” Rhodey could barely get the words out. “His entire heart, Tones. On the floor in front of him.”

“I heard that.” Tony hummed, stirring his coffee with its straw. “They said it looked professionally done.”

Rhodey flexed his fingers, counted to five in his head before going on. “I believe in coincidences, Tones. But coincidences only go so far.”

Tony glanced up again. “Oh?”

“Tell me the truth, Tony.” Rhodey gave him a hard look. “You didn’t… you have a lot of money. You didn’t hire someone to…”

Tony made a face of pure disgust. “You think I’d hire someone to commit mass murder?” He said and for a moment Rhodey calmed. “I don’t let other people do my dirty work, Rhodey. I take care of my own business.”

Rhodey’s heart stopped. “What?”

“What?” Tony asked, almost innocently.

“Did you…” Rhodey tried to ask, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Tony studied Rhodey. “Alright, let’s be honest here, okay? If I did have something to do with that murder, would you really want to know?” He took a sip of coffee.

“No,” Rhodey admitted quietly. “I… no.” He thought a moment. “How would you-you know what, fine.” Rhodey held up his hands in defeat. “Just promise me something, Tones.”

“What’s that?” Tony tilted his head to the side.

“Whatever side of you that is,” Rhodey stared at him, “the side that we aren’t gonna talk about? Let’s keep it that way. There are some things I don’t need to know about you, okay?”

“Sure.” Tony smiled. It was the first time Rhodey noticed, Tony never showed his teeth when he smiled. “If that’s how you want to keep it. Sure.”

Rhodey managed a hollow nod.

Maybe the scrappy kid wasn’t as scrappy as Rhodey thought.

-

Maria sighed, staring at the empty road. She had nothing wrong with taking back roads, even during the night. They didn’t bother her, and if they proved to be the more efficient route to her destination than they were the most logical choice.

And besides, the quiet was nice sometimes. Away from all the noises and problems she had to deal with around other people. It was relaxing, almost.

So granted, she was startled enough by the roaring motorcycle that had come veering in front of her, making her crash right into a tree.

Maria panted for a brief moment before collecting herself, pushing her hair out of her face. She had no injuries, save a few bumps and bruises.

The revving noise of the motorcycle caught Maria’s attention. It pulled up right behind her car before stopping. There were footsteps coming towards her.

Maria almost might’ve believed that whoever it was, was coming to help her but. But cyclist had come right at her, drove right in front of her. It was a hit, not an accident. Maria pulled out the gun Tony had made for her. It wasn’t lethal, instead loaded with a paralytic. Maria figured it was no use killing a hitman if she didn’t know whom he worked for.

The man walked up right next to Maria’s door, opening it. Maria laid perfectly still, waiting. As soon as he reached out to put his hand on her throat, she pulled out the gun.

It was a bit hard to find a chink in his armour in the dark, but she ended up going for his neck. The man stumbled backwards, but he didn’t pass out. Instead, he fell to one knee, trying to push himself back to his feet. Maria figured not only by his size and gear but also by the glinting metal arm that he was something above human. She shot him twice more and watched his body finally fall limp.

“And who are you?” Maria hummed, mostly to herself as she crouched next to the still body. She checked for a pulse, but otherwise focused on identifying him. She ran her hands over the leather straps of the uniform. They were HYDRA issue.

Maria made a distasteful frown. HYDRA wasn’t something she made a point to avoid, but they also weren’t something she sought out to aggravate. Being on their hit list was… annoying. Worrisome, at most. But, HYDRA or no, Maria could handle herself.

Maria’s mind flashed back to something she’d heard Martinique mention. What did he call it, a Winter Soldier? Some weapon of HYDRA’s. A ghost story.

A man with a bionic arm.

Maria couldn’t help but smile to herself. She had HYDRA’s prize weapon, lying right in front of her. The most logical thing to do would be to kill him. But.

But.

The idea of not only taking out HYDRA’s fist but making him her own… that was something Maria couldn’t quite resist.

Maria pulled out her phone, dialling a number. She’d need a new car and something to haul away the Winter Soldier’s bike. He certainly wouldn’t need it anymore.

“You know, it’s almost Christmas.” Maria mused, smiling down at the limp body, all teeth. “You’d make a lovely present for my ‘Tonio. I’m sure he could do great things with you.”

-

@justjessica131   @smittenkitten143@crazy4thewinbros   @madieorally @lazilymysticalzombie@journeythroughtherain @i-dont-know-just-where-im-going@ibreathebooks-42 @shiroukun@sonofabitch150@daughter-of-infinity@king-stony @cdragontogacotar@creepycrazyshipper@justaboringlurker @sun-at-midnight @bash-it-all @i-dont-know-anything-and-i-worry@shipeveryonetogether @jampottr @itsall-taken @shadowrayven @cdragontogacotar

[heartsandmuses]

Code Name: Shield

Universe: 616-based AU

Rating: G

for the @capim-tinybang // inspired by @jayjayverse‘s amazing art

Once it was all over, Steve took a moment to himself, to catch his breath and survey the scene in front of him: the cracks in the pavement, the line of abandoned cars on the street, the fallen, deactivated Doombots piled up by the curb. The battle had been brief but intense, and while the city might’ve had a couple reconstructions ahead of it, all in all, they’d done a fine job, Steve could safely say — the citizens of Hell’s Kitchen had been evacuated in the nick of time, the Avengers had made it out with nothing more than a couple of scrapes and bruises, and Doom himself had been taken into custody. The sun was just starting to set, the sky fading from a pale pink to a blazing, brilliant orange.

From close behind him, Steve could hear the unmistakable clank of Iron Man’s armour, the grin in his voice as he said, “Clean up crew’s on their way. C’mon, Winghead, let’s get out of here. I’m gonna need at least a fifteen-hour-long nap before the next supervillain of the week strikes.”

Turning to face him, Steve found the rest of the team — Thor, Ant-Man, Wasp — all standing around expectantly, and in high spirits from their latest victory, as they awaited further instructions.

“Yeah, alright,” he agreed, with a soft smile and an accordant nod. “Let’s head home.”

Without even having to ask, Iron Man closed the distance between them, slipping an arm around Steve’s waist, his hold tight but comfortably so — like they’d done this a thousand times before — and within seconds, they were blasting off into the sky, Manhattan growing smaller and smaller below them. Steve let out a surprised whoop as Iron Man all but somersaulted in midair, heart pounding, laugh carried away by the wind, and it didn’t take long before he was—

Waking up.

In a dark bedroom, in the middle of Brooklyn, alone.

— — —

Despite the fact that he was really only half-awake at this point, Steve rushed to get the image down on paper while it was still fresh in his mind.

It was hardly the first time he’d had that dream, thrust suddenly into the impossible world of superheroes, and sometimes it felt so real that Steve was sure he was picking up the feed from another universe. An alternate dimension. One where he was big and broad-shouldered and six feet tall, where no one laughed when he threw himself headfirst into a fight, where he was surrounded by friends who seemed a lot closer to family.

Sketches of his teammates were plastered up on the wall in front of his desk, for inspiration; canvases depicting snapshots of various battles were propped up against every available surface in his studio. Steve had even gone so far as to piece the snippets of his dreams together to create a story, which he then documented as a series of comic books. They hadn’t been picked up by any publishers yet, but that didn’t matter as much as having an outlet, a method for his madness — it was incredibly cathartic, drawing. Dreaming, too.

The painting he’d just finished, done in strokes of bright watercolour, was of Iron Man and Captain America posed in midair after the battle, tired and happy and pressed up against each other from thigh to chest. If he concentrated, Steve could still feel the ghost of a mechanical arm cinched firmly around his middle, the cool breeze on his face, the heavy chainmail weighing down his clothes.

He carefully tacked the painting to his collection on the wall, the only pop of colour in a sea of black-and-white charcoal.

— — —

Steve had seen Tony Stark more times than he could count — it would be ridiculous not to, considering he’d been working in the lobby of Stark Tower for the better part of a year, which, coincidentally, was around the time the strange dreams had started — but today was the first that he’d ever actually spoken to the man.

“Hi,” Steve greeted with a bright smile, subtly smoothing out his apron. “What can I get for you, Mr. Stark?”

“Just a black coffee, strongest brew you’ve got. I have a meeting with the board in five minutes, and I’ve been told it looks bad when I fall asleep in the middle of presentations,” Stark said, huffing out a laugh.

“How about an extra shot of espresso? On the house.”

“You’re a lifesaver, thanks.” Stark pulled out his wallet, sliding a five dollar bill across the counter and then stuffing a fifty in the tip jar, and when he finally glanced up at Steve to offer a small grin, there was flash of— Of recognition, almost, in his eyes. “Have we met before?” he asked after a moment’s pause, gaze flicking down to Steve’s nametag, then back to his face, considering. “I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

“I’ve been working here since November,” Steve offered.

Stark shook his head, and Steve couldn’t figure out whether that was a denial or he was simply trying to clear it. Both, it seemed. “No, no, not here,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “From somewhere else.”

As much as Steve doubted Stark had seen him anywhere but the coffee shop, he knew exactly what he meant. There was something about Stark, too, that was oddly familiar — and not just because he came in everyday, sometimes more than once; not even because Steve had seen him frequently featured on magazine covers or in the news. It was something more… intimate. The way Stark cocked his head ever-so-slightly in thought, the constant levity in his tone. It was all so easily recognizable, but it still took Steve a long minute to figure it out.

When he did, though, it hit him like a train.

Or a determined Doombot.

“Shellhead?”

Stark blinked, mental cogs coming to a screeching halt, and it took about a fraction of a second for his expression to smooth out into one of realization. A slow, surprised smile began to spread over his face as he replied, soft and awed and in disbelief, “Winghead? Is that you?”